


The Ivory Doll

by TheManicMagician



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Criminal Investigation, Dealing With Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pedophilia, Protective Sans, child molestation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-06-10 14:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6961639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManicMagician/pseuds/TheManicMagician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaster becomes enthralled with Sans' younger brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

“The next candidate is ready to speak with you, doctor.”

Gaster looks up from the endless stacks of paperwork on his desk, frowning at the level of exasperation in his assistant’s voice.

“Are they an unlikely candidate?” He had pinned most of his hopes on this one.

“Oh no. Just…different. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him.”

Intrigued, Gaster follows Em towards the small conference room they set aside for interviews. He dismisses her once they reach the room, and he steps inside.

A stout little skeleton sits there waiting. His visitor’s badge is pinned to a dress shirt that’s worn and frayed around the edges. Gaster gets the impression this is a monster doing the best to utilize limited resources.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Dr. Gaster.”

“Sans.” The other rumbles. Despite the skeletons young age—his application listed that he’d recently turned 19—his voice is nearly as deep as Gaster’s.

“Let’s get right to it.” Gaster takes the seat besides Sans.

Suddenly, an obnoxiously loud farting noise rips through the room, originating on Gaster’s chair. Sans’ grin stretches impossibly wide as the scientist freezes up, mortified, not sure what happened.

When he gets over his shock he lifts himself up and inspects the chair—a pink whoopie cushion was the cause. Gaster holds the limp little thing and looks over at Sans. The monster looks to be struggling to stifle his laughter.

“Did…Did you put this here?”

Sans only shrugs. Despite himself, despite the embarrassment, Gaster can’t help but admire Sans’ intrepidness. He’s here applying for one of the most prestigious jobs in the entire Underground—and he pulls a prank. He understands now, what Em was hinting at.

Gaster can’t help it—he actually chuckles aloud. After the king instated him as the Royal Scientist, no one has tried to joke with him. There’s always some degree of seriousness when he’s around. Sans’ crude humor is nearly charming.

“Well then.” He sets the deflated cushion aside for the moment. “I’m going to be frank with you, Sans.”

“Sure, if you prefer Frank to Gaster.” Sans snickers. His grin is stretched wide, full of levity, but Gaster can see the desperation flickering in the skeleton’s eye sockets. He wants this.

Gaster decides to ignore Sans’ comment and press on. “I’ve read your thesis, you’re quite sharp.”

“Oh, doc.” Sans would be batting his eyelashes if he had any. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“But the reason you’re here today is because of your mastery of magic.” Finally, Sans doesn’t interrupt with a joke. He’s really listening. “Your maneuverability of blue magic is truly phenomenal. That’s why I’d like you to assist my team with Project BOMB.”

“Bomb?” Gaster knows Sans is just _waiting_ to make a joke about the project’s name.

“I’ll explain in further detail, but I want you to meet the team first.”

Gaster is at the door before another thought pops into his head. He turns around to face Sans; he’s stuffing the whoopie cushion into his jacket pocket.

“You _do_ want the position, yes?”

Sans had applied to work as a scientist in the central lab, unaware of any specifics until Gaster just now gave him the sparsest of explanations. He might not be interested in magical research, despite his talent.

But Gaster isn’t surprised when Sans nods in the affirmative.

“Of course. Anythin’ I can do to help.”

“Wonderful. I’ll have all the paperwork drawn up later today.”

Sans sticks out his hand for a shake.

“Put ‘er there.”

Gaster reaches forward to shake his hand, but draws back at the last second. He spies the telltale silver shine of a hand buzzer around one of Sans’ fingers.

“Oh no. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…”

“Was worth a shot.”

~*~

Gaster summons his team into his office to make introductions. It’s a small crew of three, now four with the addition of Sans. Though the lab at large staffs 100 or so monsters, Gaster is rather picky when it comes to the staff he personally works with. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly; he needs monsters who are quick-witted, who can adapt to changing situations and problems. As a result, he’s gathered a motley crew, each member with their own quirks and neuroses.

“Everyone, introduce yourselves to Sans.”

Em slithers forward first. A snakelike monster, Em uses her massive jaws and her magic in lieu of additional limbs. The unapologetic “mother” of the group.

“Em. Glad to have you with us, Sans.”

Gaster’s second assistant gives a nod instead of a handshake. The cat monster’s hands twitch at his sides, his body eager for a smoke break that wouldn’t be coming for a few hours yet. “Name’s Anton. Nice to meet ya, kid.”

Before Sans can throw out a snarky comment about Anton’s nickname for him, Gaster’s final assistant bounds forward eagerly. Sans’ bones rattle with his long and enthusiastic handshake.

“Looking forward to working with you! My name’s Saul.” Saul comes from a very humanoid species of monster. The two significant features that divide them are their ashen gray skin and bulging eyes. Such similarities to humans meant Saul led a relatively isolated childhood. He compensates for the loneliness now with an abundance of enthusiasm.

Gaster watches his assistants chatter amongst each other. A small smile upturns his face. Each of them alone are vulnerable, flawed. But thanks to Gaster, they are united. Thanks to Gaster, their combined intellects will bring about greatness.

“Come now.” Gaster interrupts their conversation. “It’s time to show Sans what we do here.”

Gaster leads them to a large room. He holds the door wide, beckoning Sans in first.

“This is Project BOMB.”

Sans looks around the room. There are twenty tubes, lined in neat rows. Many are occupied; drifting inside them, in bubbling fluid, are several constructs, like animal skulls.

Sans steps towards the one nearest to him, with a canine-esque structure. He taps lightly on the glass, but the beast inside the tube doesn’t so much as twitch.

“BOMB stands for Barrier Obliteration Magic Beasts.” Gaster explains. He’s pleased that there’s no fear in Sans’ expression. His visage reflected back by the glass of the tube, his newest assistant only looks inquisitive and determined. Good.

“But what _are_ these things?”

Sans circles around, getting a closer look at the other samples. Three of them are misshapen, early failures that were only kept because there’s still room for them. Others are variations on the basic animal types: lizard, bird, small and large mammal. All different shapes and sizes, but all still looking decidedly deadly.

“They are artificially-created magical attacks.”

Gaster sweeps to a nearby computer monitor. Always open on the monitors are the status conditions of the subjects. He gives the reports a cursory glance to make sure none of the beasts require immediate aid, then calls up a video file to the main screen. His assistants crowd around him.

“Each of these cannons are designed to unleash an unprecedented amount of magical energy. We’ll use them to destroy the barrier.”

“So what’s the catch?” Asks Sans. “Are they not strong enough yet?”

“They’re plenty strong. But we can’t control them.”

Gaster lets the video play. This is the recording for their latest trial run, a few weeks ago. It shows a large rectangular room, walls of magic padding the surfaces. Anton, ears flat and tail bushed out behind him, slowly approaches the cat skull blaster.

Em snickers. “I forgot about that shirt.”

Anton flushes—in the video feed, he’s wearing a daisy-patterned sweater beneath his lab coat. He crosses his arms.

“Shove it. I’ve told you, my niece made it for me.”

“I think it’s lovely,” Saul comments. “It brings out the green in your eyes.”

“Don’t be weird.”

They watch the video playback, as Anton stretches out a hand tentatively to pat the beast’s muzzle. But he yelps, withdrawing hastily as it snaps at him with its massive jaws. As it lunges towards him again, Gaster steps forward, locking the creature in a cage of magic. They watch it crash against the bars, slowly tiring itself out.

Gaster pauses the video, and turns to address Sans.

“Our current objective is to find a way to establish a sort of tether with the beasts. Master them.” Gaster pauses, then adds: “Because your HP is so low, we will not have you interacting with the cannons directly.”

Sans gives no outward reaction, but Gaster is sure he’s frustrated. Most employers don’t check their employees’ stats, as a matter of courtesy. The general belief is that a monster would pick a job best suited for their capabilities, regardless. But Gaster is cautious; he’s not going to invest time and energy into his assistants only to have one lab experiment gone wrong cause them to crumble into dust.

But Sans shrugs, like it doesn’t bother him.

“Hey, you’re the boss.”

~*~

The following weeks pass by in a flurry of activity as the team works to devise a new method to approach the cannons. Sans, having lived near dog monsters much of his life, suggests they modify their scent to something nonthreatening.

A series of trials and errors have followed, leaving Em, Anton, and Saul in turn reeking and itching for a shower after.

As Sans becomes more comfortable with his peers, he tapers off some on the japes and jokes, and opens up a bit. He starts gushing about his younger brother Papyrus every spare chance he gets, showing the other assistants the numerous photographs stashed in his wallet.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve the little nugget.” Sans insists every single time, voice saturated with adoration.

It is when they’re running yet another scent trial that Gaster first sees him.

They are optimistic about this one. Previous trials left the creatures disinterested, disgusted, or unaffected. None of those the reactions they’re looking for.

Today is Saul’s turn to be the potential tether. He stands with his arms held out, juddering with excitement.

“Keep still.” Anton grumbles, as he hoses Saul down with the latest batch of formula. “Ugh, this shit reeks.” Anton has a far keener sense of smell than the rest of them, nearly dog level.

Em slithers over once he’s done, taking a whiff. “Smells pretty harmless to me.” She says.

The lights inside Sans’ eye sockets brighten, and as one the team brace themselves for his appallingly awful humor.

“Yeah, if the beasts don’t want to befriend you smelling like that, it makes no _scents_.”

Everyone groans good-naturedly.

“We need to come up with a better name for them then “beasts.” It’s too nondescript.” Says Em.

“Hyper Cannons? Mega Gushers?” Suggests Sans. “What about Energy Vomiters?”

Anton’s whiskers twitch. “If we’re renaming them, we’re _not_ leaving it up to Sans.”

“I like Mega Gushers.” Volunteers Saul.

“Saul doesn’t get to be on the voting committee, either.”

“Head on in, Saul.” Gaster steers them back on track.

The monster snaps off a salute to his boss. “Yessir!”

Gaster has long since given up on trying to correct Saul’s zealous, over-polite nature.

Saul goes into the testing room alone, while Gaster and the rest of the team file into the observation room. One of its walls is a sheet of one-way glass that allows them to observe the testing room.

In the center of the testing room is the canine blaster, which hovers restlessly in a cage of Gaster’s magic.

The Royal Scientist taps the intercom.

“I’m releasing the cage now.” He warns, and does just that.

The team watches their interaction with bated breath.

Rather than sidle up to the beast, as Anton and Em tended to do, Saul simply stands there, letting it be the one to approach him.

The doglike creature circles Saul, clearly smelling his scent. For a moment, the beast seems to enjoy the smell. But then it rears back, jaw hinging open.

Saul narrowly dodges out of the way as the beam of energy completely shatters the magical barriers Gaster had erected, and punches a massive hole in the wall.

“Oh God—”

“Shut it down, Gaster, the cage—”

“We’ve gotta get him out of there!”

Somehow, it knows they’re there. The canine creature summons another beam, and the whole team drops to the floor as its attack shatters the glass wall.

The beast shoves its way through the new opening it created, savage, angry. Gaster throws up the caging magic, but the beast shakes itself free from the bindings easily.

A low growl builds in the creature’s throat, eyes glowing and glittering. The team is frozen in the positions they were in when they ducked for cover, staring up at the destructive weapon.

Then, of all things, there’s the click of the door opening.

Sans’ eyes go to empty pits when he sees a small skeleton standing in the doorway. A child.

“Brother?” He squeaks out. “What is that thing?”

“P-Papyrus? What are you _doing_ here?”

The beast turns towards the boy, the sight of new prey catching its interest.

Sans is right by Gaster’s side, but within a second he’s suddenly _not_ , he’s by the door, arms splayed protectively in front of Papyrus. 1 HP be damned.

Sans’ eye socket flickers with blue magic.

“Back off.” He growls.

To the team’s amazement, the canine beast is cowed by his threat, retreating away from him, even whimpering slightly. Gaster seizes this moment of vulnerability to surround the creature in a cage again, bars so thick it’s nearly a box. It doesn’t put up a fight this time, resting on the bottom of the cage, still whining softly.

Saul pokes his head through the ruined wall, eyes even wider than usual.

“Is everyone okay?” He shouts.

“We’re all fine.” Anton lightly pushes him back into the testing room. “Don’t get yourself cut on the glass.”

The cat monster then grabs the tether to the cage from Gaster.

“I’ll take it back.” He offers. Anton awkwardly scoots around Sans and his brother to exit.

Now that the momentary chaos has abated, Gaster finally _sees_ Papyrus for the first time. And he actually staggers back a step, struck by the sight of the child. His usually-brilliant mind fuzzes over, and all he can focus on is the boy across the room. Papyrus squirms in Sans’ hold, and the guilty flush of magic to his cheekbones sets Gaster’s soul ablaze.

“What are you even _doing_ here?” Sans hisses, eyes glittering with protective anger.

“I j-just thought I’d surprise you—”

“Papyrus, I’ve told you not to come here.”

“You never said the lab was dangerous!” Papyrus protests. “You said you were going to be safe at your new job!”

Sans is about to fire back, but then seems to remember the two of them aren’t alone in the room. He hefts Papyrus up, even as the grumbling child tries to push away. Sans turns to Em and Gaster, skeletal grin sheepish.

“I’m, uh. Gonna take him home now.”

“I can walk home myself!” Says Papyrus, voice muffled as he presses his face into Sans’ shoulder.

“Enough, Papyrus.” Sans’ gaze flicks back up to look at Gaster. “If that’s okay with you, doc.”

Gaster shakes himself free from his stupor, and waves them off. Afraid that if he tries to speak, nothing will come out.

He’s never felt like this before, so strongly. Perhaps it is—

“Dr. Gaster?” Em shoves her large head in his face. “Gaster?”

“What?” His voice comes out gravelly, snappish.

Fortunately, she misunderstands his peevishness.

“Don’t worry, sir. We’ll figure out these beasts yet. This one seemed to even be obeying Sans, at the end.”

Em chatters on, and Gaster grunts in agreement to whatever she says. His mind is still on Papyrus.

With Sans gone and the creature still fidgety, there’s little point in pursuing further research. After briefly checking to make sure Saul is truly unscathed (he is) Gaster dismisses the remainder of the team until the following day.

Once Gaster reaches his abode, he makes a beeline for the sofa. He sits, and takes a moment to sort though what has happened.

He does not know why he’s like this.

Perhaps he simply wants what society dictates does not belong to him. The pursuit of the unobtainable. Isn’t that why he became a scientist, after all? To unlock the secrets of the world that others are too simple-minded to even _search_ for?

Perhaps it is because he lost his betrothed at a young age, when the humans drove them underground. For years after he would lie in the night, imagining her pallid porcelain face on the pillow next to his. Her youthful face became his paragon of beauty.

Gaster shakes his head. He could spend years ruminating on why he feels this way—what’s important is that he does. He wants to touch the boy’s pristine bones, alabaster unmarred by time and wear. To touch something so pure—to corrupt it by his own hand.

He’s growing too excited. He lifts a hand up from the arm of the sofa and strands of him cling to the fabric. He sighs. It’s hard to maintain his preferred, more elegant form when he gets riled up. Withdrawing from musings for a moment, he focuses on solidifying himself. The strands reluctantly knit themselves back together.

For years, decades even, Gaster’s life has been drudgery. Just going through the motions in the lab as he tried new experiments, only to fail again and again. If he and the king weren’t old friends—and if the monster had a sliver of spine—Gaster would’ve been ousted from his position long ago.

But just the sight of the boy—just the thought of him—makes him feel so _alive_. After all he’s done for monsterkind, he deserves this. Papyrus will be his.

~*~

Gaster’s soul lurches with joy when Sans enters the lab the next day, five minutes late as opposed to his usual fifteen.

The short skeleton makes a beeline for Gaster.

“Just wanted to, uh. Apologize for yesterday. I’ve made sure Paps won’t show up like that again.”

“Why did he come yesterday?” Gaster asks, curious.

Sans lets out a weak chuckle. “He’d gotten a good grade on his science project and couldn’t wait a couple hours to show me.”

It must have meant a lot, for the boy to directly disobey Sans like that.

“Does Papyrus struggle in school?”

The idea of the object of his affections being of average or lower intelligence bothers him on some level. But Sans is quick to defend his younger brother.

“Paps is a whole lot smarter than me. I should some you some of his puzzles someday—they’re brilliant. Some things just don’t click, with the way they’re teaching him.” Sans shuffles a bit. “I help him with the science when I can, but I don’t exactly remember every little thing about every subject, you know?”

There’s an opportunity here. Gaster tamps down on his enthusiasm, not letting his voice raise in pitch.

“What else does he have difficulty with?”

“Monster languages.” Sans says, with an edge of bitterness. “It breaks his little heart, too. He wants to befriend everyone, but has a hard time understanding them.”

All monsters are raised to speak the “common” language, but each species has their own language as well. The most common species’ languages are taught in the public schools.

“I believe I could be of service.” Gaster says, offer honeyed and smooth.

“What?” Sans blinks up at him, uncomprehending.

“I grew up in a very isolated village.”

As proud as he is of his heritage, there’s also a shade of embarrassment—the moldsmal family are their far less-evolved cousins.

He continues. “When the move underground occurred, I had to quickly adapt to communicating with other monsters. I could teach Papyrus using the techniques that helped me.”

“Aw, doc, you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s no trouble at all.” Gaster interrupts him. “Truly. I’d love to help.”

But Sans still dithers. “I don’t think we can really afford—”

“ _Sans_.” Gaster admonishes him. “I’m the king’s Royal Scientist. Do you think I want for gold?” He smiles down at his assistant. “I just want to help.”

Finally, the skeleton shrugs. “Well…why not? Paps’ll be over the moon.”

“Excellent.”

Gaster scrawls his home address on a piece of scrap paper, excitement making his hand shake, marring his usually-perfect penmanship. Still, it’s legible. Gaster hands it to Sans.

“I believe two meetings a week shall suffice.” He wanted to say three, but he doesn’t want his greed to put off Sans.

Sans tucks the address in his jacket pocket. Normally, Gaster would be worried he’d misplace it, but Sans seems to take things concerning his younger brother a little more seriously.

Sans is about to leave, but then pauses.

“Thanks for this, doc.” He says quietly.

Gaster waves away his gratitude. He’s the one who’s truly grateful—Sans has provided him with an opportunity to meet with Papyrus the day after their first meeting.

“It’s my pleasure.”

~*~

When King Asgore decided to move his homestead from Home to New Home, most monsters picked up and moved with him.

As the king led them through the Underground, a few monsters split off from the herd, finding specific climates especially appealing.

Gaster would have preferred to do his work in the peace and quiet of a place like Snowdin, but the creation and maintenance of the Core required the main lab to be built in Hotland. Leery of the overcrowding in New Home as well as the insufferable heat of Hotland, Gaster moved into a house on the border of both. A bit warm, but at least he can avoid huge throngs of monsters.

Sans and Papyrus live closer to the center of the city, where the crowds are larger but the rent is cheaper. Gaster walks aimlessly back and forth around his house, jittery with anticipation for their arrival.

When the doorbell finally rings, Gaster takes care not to answer too quickly. When he does, he opens the door wide. Little Papyrus stares up at him with wonder. Sans is behind him, a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Hi Dr. Gaster!” The boy chirps. His voice is high, pleasant; he’s a few years yet from puberty.

Gaster eyes his clothes with a touch of distaste. Scuffed sneakers, patched jeans, and an old shirt that had to have belonged to Sans, a faded pun on the front. The shirt is too large, cinched in the back with a plain black hair tie. Something so beautiful should be dressed up, put on display, not obscured by ill-fitting, bulky clothing.

“Hello, Papyrus.” Gaster steps to the side of the doorway to allow him to come through.

Sans gives his brother’s shoulder a supportive squeeze. “Be good for the doc now, Paps.”

“I will!” Papyrus whirls around to give his brother a quick little hug, and then he scurries inside.

Gaster exchanges goodbyes with Sans and shuts the door. He now has Papyrus to himself for two full hours. Surreptitiously, he checks through the blinds on his front window. Sans is indeed gone.

“Wowie! What’s all this?” Papyrus’ delighted voice echoes throughout the house.

Gaster moves to the kitchen, where Papyrus has discovered the tray of treats Gaster had prepared for him. He’s not fond of sweets himself, so he baked variations of the pastries several times to find the perfect combination of ingredients.

“They’re for you. Pick whatever you’d like, Papyrus.”

The boy hesitates. “Sans says I’m not supposed to have dessert before supper.”

“Come now,” Gaster cajoles. “It’ll be our secret.”

Papyrus eyes the pastries hungrily, but shakes his head.

“But Sans said…”

“Papyrus, you’re a guest in my home. It’d be rude of you to refuse my hospitality.”

“Well…alright then!”

Papyrus selects one of the cupcakes—vanilla, with icing and strawberries atop it. He tears off the wrapping and crams the whole thing in his mouth at once. No finesse. Gaster has seen Sans eat in the same appalling manner during lunch breaks at work.

“Mmm.” Papyrus hums delightedly. Gaster’s soul climbs into his throat—some of the frosting has smeared on the boy’s face.

Before he can stop himself Gaster is reaching out towards him.

“Now look, you’ve made a mess.” Gaster wipes the frosting away with his fingers, reveling in the brief contact with smooth bone.

Papyrus flushes adorably, scrubbing the last bits of frosting from his face.

“Let’s get started with your studies.” Papyrus is too young and unaware to wonder at the sudden hoarseness of Gaster’s voice.

Gaster steers Papyrus to his living room. The walls are lined with elegant, dark cherry bookcases, shelves filled with thick scientific journals. Gaster takes a seat on one half of the leather sofa, and Papyrus hops up beside him.

“What grade are you in?”

“Fifth.” He says cheerily, swinging his legs. No older than 10 or 11 then, just as he’d thought.

“You’re quite tall for your age.”

Papyrus puffs out his chest proudly.

“Sans says I’m _way_ bigger than he was at my age.”

“Indeed you are.” At the rate the child’s growing, he will soon eclipse his older brother’s stubby height.

“That’s because Sans always eats greasy things.” Papyrus bemoans his brother’s poor dietary choices. “But _I_ listen to the Vegetoids. _I_ eat my greens.”

“That’s very good of you, Papyrus.” The boy lights up at the minor praise. “Now tell me, which monster languages are you focusing on at the moment?”

“Dogspeak and tem.”

Gaster grimaces. He is familiar with both, but while Dogspeak is tolerable, the language of the tummies feels strange and degrading to speak.

“Let’s start our lesson with Dogspeak. Show me what you’ve got so far.”

Papyrus screws up his face, concentrating. He yips out his name and a few short sentences. It’s not a bad baseline to work with. Gaster gives him corrections and suggestions, and Papyrus adapts swiftly, never making the same mistake twice. Before he knows it, two hours have passed, and Sans is at the door.

“How’d it go? You learn anything, Paps?”

Papyrus bounds over to rejoin Sans, barking in the affirmative.

“Uh-oh. You stuck speaking like that now?”

Papyrus growls teasingly, not ready yet to give up the Dogspeak.

“That’s ruff, kiddo.”

“ _Sans_!” Papyrus swats his brother lightly on the arm.

Surprising Gaster, the boy then returns to his side and gives him a quick hug.

“Thank you, Dr. Gaster!”

He waves the pair away from his house, watches them go. He’ll have to move slowly, be patient.

He knows where to start.

~*~

At the end of their second tutoring session, Gaster is prepared. He closes out their session a few minutes ahead of time, before Sans arrives, and gives Papyrus a little present, a reward for doing so well. It’s a new shirt, made of expensive, comfortable material that will hug his petite frame rather nicely.

This becomes a trend, Gaster gifting Papyrus another nice article of clothing every time they meet, until ultimately, every time Gaster sees him he’s wearing a dapper new outfit.

He also conditions Papyrus to his casual touch—a hand on his back here, a pat on his skull there—until it becomes second nature to him. Papyrus is a tactile youth regardless, so it’s hardly difficult.

A little more than a month into their arrangement, Sans comes up to Gaster at work. Gaster has his suspicions why, so he throws off what was probably a prepared speech by being the first to speak.

“Ah, Sans. I’ve been meaning to ask—how has Papyrus been doing in school? Any improvement?”

Sans blinks, then clears his throat. “Uh, well. He’s bringing back better grades now. But, uh. You know that you don’t really have to keep…giving him stuff.”

“He doesn’t like the clothes?”

“Well—” Sans squirms, feeling awkward. “He does, but it’s just—”

Gaster is growing annoyed. Why can’t Sans just be grateful?

“Sans, I don’t mind. I don’t have children, nieces or nephews.” Anyone that could have born them perished when the humans came. “It’s nice to have someone to dote on.”

“Hey, Sans!” Anton shouts over to them from across the room. “Give me a hand over here, won’t you?”

Sans shuffles off to help, and Gaster knows that the skeleton’s apprehensions have been soothed.

With Sans pacified for the moment, things continue to progress smoothly. However, one day he greets the skeleton brothers at his door and can immediately sense something is amiss. After waving his brother farewell, Papyrus’ cheerful veneer cracks. They’ve hardly sat down when the boy starts to sniffle.

“Papyrus, what ever is the matter?”

“N-Nothing.” Papyrus scrubs at his eye sockets. “I’m fine.”

“You can tell me anything.” Gaster urges him.

He pulls the boy closer to him. Papyrus leans against his side instinctively, not even questioning the intimate gesture of comfort.

“It’s nothing…”

“I won’t tell Sans a thing if you don’t want me to. I’m good at keeping secrets between us, remember?”

“It’s just…” Papyrus picks at a crease in the couch cushion. “Something happened at—at school today.”

When Papyrus falls silent, Gaster prompts him to continue.

“Go on.”

“Today, in gym class, we, um. We were playing kickball. It’s this human sport—”

“I’m aware of it.”

“Oh. The—The teacher, she let us pick teams ourselves. And no one wanted me.”

Dead last to be picked for a physical challenge? It seems odd to Gaster, considering the boy’s strength, height, and abundance of energy.

“Why do you think you were picked last?”

“They _told_ me why.” Tears prick the boy’s eye sockets. “Said I was weird. A freak.”

“Oh, Papyrus.”

Gaster encircles him in his arms, Papyrus’ back flush to Gaster’s chest. The child is in his lap, and dear God, he can even _smell_ him. Gaster inhales the faint tang of his body and magic.

“Don’t let what those children say get to you.”

Papyrus shifts, his tailbone digging in sharply _right there_. Gaster sucks in a breath, but the boy hears little over his own hiccupping sobs. As Papyrus quivers atop him, Gaster feels himself begin to swell.

“They are merely insecure in themselves, and are taking that out on you.”

The utter inappropriateness of his arousal in this moment only serves to make him harder.

“There is nothing wrong with you. You’re wonderful.”

Gaster subtly activates his magic, to put further pressure upon his erection. He strokes Papyrus’ radius bone in a gesture of comfort, but revels in the texture for his own pleasure.

“Sans loves you.”

He hasn’t pleasured himself in ages; his body, so long denied, is nearly ready to orgasm.

“And I cherish you.”

With a huff of breath he comes. The fabric of his clothes is thick enough Papyrus doesn’t feel the wetness of semen that’s trickled out. Instead, the small skeleton twists around, giving him a hug.

“Thank you, Dr. Gaster. You’re the bestest friend I have.” He thinks a bit, then amends: “Well, aside from Sans.”

Gaster wants to revel in the moment, but he knows if he doesn’t move soon his nice leather couch will be ruined.

“Why don’t you do wash up?” Gaster suggests. “We’ll forget studying for today. I’ll show you a new pastry recipe instead.”

Papyrus’ eye sockets nearly sparkle with joy. He clambers to the bathroom excitedly. Gaster eyes his tiny form until he disappears from sight.

Then Gaster stands, and starts to clean himself up. He wonders how far he’ll be able to take this. He imagines it’ll be quite fun.


	2. Caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing says happy Independence Day like a skeevy goop man molesting a skeleton...right?
> 
> But in all seriousness, things are going to creep into THAT territory from this chapter on. So if it makes you uncomfortable, y'all should leave now.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has left feedback thus far; this fic is really out of my comfort zone as a writer, and you've all been pretty chill so far.

“Today, we’re going to do something a little different.” Gaster explains.

Papyrus swings his legs as he sits on the couch, watching him raptly. “Are we going to bake something again?”

“No, today—today we’re going to play a game.”

Gaster reaches out, enveloping the child’s small femur in his hand. He squeezes it, and Papyrus barely reacts, the behavior normalized by this point.

“It’s a game normally played by adults, but I think you’re clever enough that we can start it now.”

For such a young boy, he has a bit of an ego; the insinuation that he’s mature has him puffing up with pride.

“Really? How does it work?”

“Adults only play this game with “special friends”. It’s a very private thing. You can’t tell anyone about it, even Sans.”

Papyrus’ face twists in consternation.

“You have to promise me, Papyrus. Or else we can’t play.”

The boy fidgets with indecision before finally sticking out his pinkie finger towards Gaster.

“You have to shake it. It’s a pinkie promise. The most unbreakable of promises!” Papyrus explains, off of Gaster’s bemused look. Humoring him, Gaster completes the pinkie promise.

“So how do we play?” Asks Papyrus, eagerly.

Gaster elects to show him, rather than explain. He pulls the boy into his lap. His hands tremble with eagerness as he rucks up Papyrus’ shirt.

“Dr. Gaster…?” Papyrus trails off, uncertainly.

“Be silent.” Gaster commands him. “There’s no speaking while we play the game.”

Gaster’s hands first ghost along Papyrus’ ribs, checking their strength. They’re tough, not as fragile as he expected. Despite how they look, these are not the bones found in the average monster’s skeleton, but something built to withstand the shocks and pressures skin usually does. Under the light, they even seem to glow.

Gaster’s touches draw a few breathless laughs from Papyrus. The gentle tickling then turns into a firm stroking and massaging. Gaster feels his way around the boy’s ribs and spine. Papyrus’ muffled laughter morphs into stifled gasps and moans.

A spatter of liquid drips onto Gaster’s hand. Gaster tugs Papyrus’ shirt off, the boy obligingly lifting his arms up. Gaster can now see the boy’s soul shimmering within the uppermost recesses of his ribcage. It glows a lovely orange, with strands of deep blue interwoven within.

The soul is the most intimate part of any monster. Gaster wants nothing more than to cup Papyrus’ soul in his hands, sweep his thumbs over the pulsating mass, watch Papyrus writhe and moan as his essence drips in Gaster’s hands.

But…not yet. Soul protection is an emphasized lesson in childhood. Even Papyrus would be bothered by Gaster making that big of a leap today.

So for now, Gaster contents himself with the meager amount he’s been given. He laps up the few drops of magic. It’s only enough to give him a hint of his taste, something distinctly Papyrus.

Papyrus cranes his neck to look at Gaster questioningly, wondering why he’s paused his ministrations. Gaster wordlessly starts to touch him again. And, instead of trailing upwards, to the boy’s vibrant soul, Gaster’s hands go lower. He undoes the fastenings on Papyrus’ pants, pushing them and his boxers down and out of the way.

Papyrus shivers as he’s exposed to the cool air, but soon enough Gaster is warming him again with caresses to his pelvic bone.

“Ah…mmm…that’s...” Papyrus lets out a few words before quieting himself again. But Gaster has changed his mind on the rules of the game.

He brings one hand up to tug away Papyrus’ own from his mouth, letting him moan and mutter freely.

“No words.” Gaster says, lips brushing the side of Papyrus’ skull. “But I want to hear your voice.”

Gaster’s hand strokes him firmly, eliciting mewls from the boy. Gaster peppers kisses on his neck, leaving a faint film of his saliva over the vertebra.

Residue from Papyrus’ soul seeps through the spaces between his bones, soaking the front of Gaster’s shirt. Gaster pauses once more, drinking in the sight in front of him. Papyrus is staring up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes dim, mind lost in sensation. At the brief lapse in contact, Papyrus whines, hips thrusting up slightly. His body knows what it wants, but he’s not quite sure what to ask for.

“Please…” He gasps. “Please…”

“So needy.” Gaster scolds him, breathlessly. “Fine, I’ll give you what you want.”

Gaster fondles Papyrus, stroking and touching and rubbing until the boy reaches his peak. With a strangled cry, Papyrus orgasms, liquid magic bursting free from his soul in every direction.

Papyrus leans back against Gaster’s chest, panting with the exertion.

“You did very good for your first time, Papyrus.” Gaster praises him. “I’m proud of you.”

Papyrus beams up at the doctor. “Nyeh…that felt…very good.”

“It’s supposed to. And we’ll do it again and again and again.” He promises this to the both of them.

Gaster hooks one arm below Papyrus’ legs and encircles his other around his chest. Gaster stands, cradling the boy tenderly in his arms.

“Are we playing another game now?”

Gaster chuckles. “No, Papyrus.”

He carries Papyrus to the bathroom. The skeleton watches from his perch on the shut toilet lid as Gaster fills the tub with lukewarm water. Once the water level is to his satisfaction, Gaster places his charge in the tub. He industrially scrubs at the child’s bones, making sure to remove every speck of Papyrus’ spent magic. He uses a scentless soap, so this additional bath will go unnoticed by the boy’s guardian.

Papyrus splashes happily in the bathwater, as he has undoubtedly done a hundred times before as Sans bathed him.

Gaster hasn’t yet come himself. His cock is still stiff and swollen within his slacks, every shift of his body a minor agony as it chafes against the constricting fabric. But he just continues to clean Papyrus, paying it no mind. There’s a certain pleasure in being on the edge of climax, but not quite tipping over.

Once Papyrus is cleaned up to his satisfaction, Gaster hands him a fluffy white towel. As Papyrus methodically dries himself off, Gaster retrieves the boy’s discarded clothes. Before he takes them back to the child, Gaster brings them to his nose, taking delight in Papyrus’ scent.

He helps Papyrus dress and then steers him into the kitchen. He pushes a pastry into Papyrus’ hand, and leaves him to munch on the snack while he makes his final preparations for Sans’ arrival. The food will boost up Papyrus’ magical energy again.

Gaster moves to his bedroom and undresses swiftly. He’d made sure today to wear an outfit he had a double of in case of any mess.

His dick is still hard. He gives it a few squeezes before shoving on the second pair of pants. He wrinkles his nicely-ironed shirt, to look as if he had been wearing it all day.

With his and Papyrus’ personal appearances taken care of, all that’s left is the living room. Gaster cleans it efficiently, only the slight scent of citrus left to linger.

Afterwards, he collects Papyrus again, and the two discuss the nuances of his language class until Sans arrives. As he waves the duo farewell for the day, a wave of smugness overtakes him. If Sans knew what was going on he would set upon Gaster like a wild beast until he put him down. But Sans is utterly oblivious to the things that have and will happen inside Gaster’s home. Sans loves to pull pranks, but one of the most severe deceptions of all is passing right by him.

Gaster returns to his bedroom once they are gone. He roots through a closet filled with fitted turtleneck sweaters and pristine white labcoats, and pulls out a garment carefully wrapped in layers of plastic. Gaster pulls it free of its coverings. It was one of the few possessions he had been able to save from the surface—his beloved’s dress. An elegant blue silk, trimmed with lavender lace. Gaster lays it out over the duvet. He kneels down beside the bed, one hand stroking the fabric of the dress while the other cups the clothed erection between his legs. He no longer envisions his long-dead betrothed above him, but instead Papyrus, sweet Papyrus. The boy’s moans and whimpers from earlier are repeated back in his mind. He wishes he’d filmed their coupling. He’ll have to make a note of picking up the necessary equipment soon.

The image of Papyrus wearing his beloved’s dress, flushing beautifully as Gaster lifts it up to fondle his pubic arch, his orange soul dripping with need and want for _him_ —

Gaster buckles against the side of the bed as he comes.

The rush of heady pleasure fades, leaving a hollow void in its wake. He plucks at the fabric of his soiled pants distastefully. Self disgust rips through him, as it often does after an orgasm. He’s a monster of logic and reason, but his carnal cravings all too often steer him towards his baser urges. With a sigh, he moves to clean himself up.

~*~

“Absolutely not.” Says Em, full of maternal disapproval. “It’s far too dangerous.”

“Look. Clearly, it worked before. Nothing else has worked yet.” Sans’ gaze slides from Em to Gaster, quietly requesting the Royal Scientist’s override. “One chance, that’s all I’m asking.”

Saul wrings his hands, hating to see his friends at odds.

Em now turns to Gaster too, beseechingly. “Sir, you must agree with me on this.”

All of them, even Anton, who was until now pretending not to be listening in on the conversation, look to Gaster expectantly.

“Sans is an adult, capable of making his own decisions.” Em’s mouth drops open, about to utter further protest. “But, as I said when Sans first joined us; it is senseless to risk his life when there are other avenues still open to us.” Ignoring Sans’ scowl, Gaster addresses the whole team. “I believe our next step is simply a different approach. We have attempted thus far to be nonthreatening to the beasts, to strike up a kinship. Perhaps we need to use intimidation, as Sans did when shielding his brother.”

“Are we going to _hurt_ them?” Asks Saul.

“They aren’t real animals. It doesn’t matter.” Anton says, a bit patronizingly.

“We will intimidate, not harm.” Gaster allays Saul’s worries. No physical damage will come to the cannons, at least not for the moment. If the new plan fails, then, of course, everything is once again on the table.

“Shall we start with the canine skull first, then?”

Gaster gives Em’s question a nod of approval. She glances at Sans. The skeleton has been uncharacteristically silent since his request was denied, and now fiddles absently with a pen, repeatedly taking it apart and screwing it back together again.

“…I’ll go prepare the cannon for testing.”        

With one last concerned glance at Sans—who doesn’t notice, focused as he is on the pen—she slithers from the room.

Catching the shift in mood, Anton inclines his head towards the door. “I’ll go make sure the new testing room is up to spec.” He throws an arm around Saul, hauling the other monster with him. “Saul’ll help.”

“Oh, o-okay…” Saul agrees, not quite understanding, but going along with Anton anyway.

The door closes behind them, and now Sans and Gaster have been left alone in the room.

“Sans—”

“Don’t start.” Sans rounds on Gaster angrily. “Just…don’t.”

“Alright.” Gaster says, simply.

Sans is unable to stand the expectant silence.

“I can _do_ it, doc. You don’t think I’ve found my own ways around my HP problem? I don’t need to be coddled, I—I don’t want _favors_ , or special treatment, or anything like that from you.”

“I’m not trying to be a father figure to you. Admittedly, I do see Papyrus now slightly in that light. But it’s hard not to feel such a way about someone like Papyrus.” Gaster placates Sans with half-truths. “However, I assure you, I have kept the relationship between you and I strictly professional in my mind. We are coworkers, practically equals. And as I’ve said, in that context, it’d be a gamble to throw you in a room with one of those beasts.”

“And what if they don’t listen to anyone else?” Sans challenges. “What then?”

“Then I will reconsider you as a tether candidate.”

Sans is surprised Gaster would promise him this, even in private. Gaster smiles.

“Did you think I would deny you the opportunity out of some moral principle? This is so much bigger than any of us. The work we do here is meant to benefit all monsterkind.”

Gaster considers giving Sans a pat on the shoulder, but assumes the skeleton would misconstrue it as a fatherly gesture. While a small part of him is intrigued by the possibilities presented by molding Sans into a dutiful son, he dismisses the urge. Between his work and Papyrus, he already has enough to occupy his time. So Gaster strides right on past him, to the door.

“Now come. I’m sure the others are anxious to start.”

They enter the observation room adjacent to the testing room. Hopefully, the beasts won’t lash out again; they only have so many spare testing rooms.

The rest of Gaster’s assistants are already waiting for them inside, and are visibly relieved to see Gaster and Sans enter together, clearly no longer at odds. The canine cannon skull sits in the center of the testing room, rattling its teeth with a restless energy.

“Anton, I want you to go in today.” Of the three of them, the cat monster makes the most sense. Saul is softhearted, and Em cannot gesture in a dominating manner when she has no limbs to do so.

“Got it, boss.”

Anton strides across the room.”

“Shoelaces!” Em snaps.

They all look down. Sure enough, the ratty shoelace on one of Anton’s sneakers is undone.

“Whoops.” He says, devoid of any real care.

Em uses her magic to tie the lace in a firm knot.

“Honestly!”

Anton grins. “Thanks, Em. You’re a peach.”

The group watches as Anton leaves the observation room and enters the testing room. The beast notices him at once, growling lowly. It has not kept hold of the meek temperament it demonstrated towards Sans.

Anton turns as aggressive as possible. Physically, he straightens from his slouching posture. His fur bristles threateningly, his sharp teeth gleaming and visible. He does not summon forth his magic, but he does exert his magical presence. Even from the room over, they all can feel that there’s a significant increase in the weight of the air.

“Come here.” Anton growls. He extends his hand.

The cannon is confused by the increase of magical pressure in the room. It drifts towards Anton—curious, cautious, but clearly not cowed.

“I think it’s working!” Saul is hopeful, but no one else in the observation room is as optimistic yet. If Em had fingers, she’d be chewing at her nails right now.

The beast comes closer, closer, to Anton’s outstretched hand.

“That’s right, come on. Get your ass over here.”

The beast nuzzles against Anton’s palm, getting a whiff of his scent. Everyone relaxes a fraction as it seems to be accepting him.

And then the beast’s jaws hinge open wide. Anton hastily retracts his hand, right as its jaws snap shut around the empty air.

“Fucker!” Anton yowls.

Gaster summons a cage around the beast, locking it inside. It bashes itself against the bars, straining to get to Anton. The cat monster flees the room before it starts throwing energy beams again.

Ruffled and disappointed, Anton rejoins the group.

“I think you almost had him.” Saul tries to be supportive.

“He almost had _me_ for lunch.” Anton fumbles out a cigarette from his pack and lights it. Gaster charitably allows this, considering the monster nearly lost his arm.

Sans eyes Gaster, but the latter won’t acknowledge his I-told-you-so look.

“Em,” He says, instead. “You’re next.”

~*~

Gaster is pleased when Papyrus shows up for their next meeting with his brother as per usual. In front of Sans, the child acts naturally, displaying not a hint of unease at being left in Gaster’s care again. To the boy, their “play” session had been a fun experience, something shared between two close friends, and nothing more.

When they reach the living room, Papyrus digs around in his backpack and pulls out a worn notebook and a stubby pencil. He offers them to Gaster, who only sets them aside on the table. When Gaster grasps at the hem of Papyrus’ shirt, though, the boy tries to push him away.

“Papyrus?” There’s the hint of a threat in his tone.

“I—there’s a test coming up soon. I could really use your help—”

“I’ve taught you all you need to know.” Gaster says, irritable. When it really comes down to it, all it takes is rote memorization to learn a language. “Just study using the methods I’ve taught you and you’ll do fine.”

“But—”

“ _Papyrus_.” He growls, killing the boy’s protest. “You don’t want me to get mad now, do you?”

“N-No.”

“Then don’t disappoint me,” Gaster says, leaning closer. “And don’t speak.”

~*~

The following week, Papyrus shamefacedly shows him his monster language test. A failing score is written in blazing red pen across the front page.

Gaster plucks the test from his grasp. Crammed into the corner of the page is a request for a parental signature, an awaiting line underneath it.

“Sans hasn’t seen this yet, has he?”

“No. I thought—do you want to talk to him?”

Papyrus squirms on the couch beside him, bracing himself for Gaster’s scorn and punishment. But he’s baffled when instead Gaster plants a kiss on the crown of his skull.

“Dr. Gaster?”

“You have done well to bring this to me first, Papyrus.”

Gaster locates a pen, and signs Sans’ name as he remembers it from his hiring paperwork.

“Wowie!” Exclaims Papyrus. “That looks just like Sans’. How’d you do that?”

“If your teacher ever asks for something to be signed, you just bring it to me, alright?”

Papyrus is conflicted. “But, that’s lying…”

“It’s a secret, Papyrus. We keep secrets between us to protect others, alright? You don’t want to see Sans angry or sad because of something you did, do you? He works hard enough without you adding to his troubles, doesn’t he?”

Gaster gives the test paper a shake for emphasis. When Papyrus doesn’t respond right away, Gaster grabs his chin and forces his head up to meet his gaze.

“Doesn’t he?”

“...He does.”

“Just do as I say, Papyrus, and everything will be fine.”

~*~

Papyrus is late.

Gaster paces back and forth in his foyer anxiously, stealing repeated glances through the front windows. It’s almost half an hour past their appointed meeting time and Papyrus is not here.

The weather is fair, and Sans mentioned nothing at the end of his shift.

Did Papyrus say something to Sans?

How much did he say—did he just admit to Gaster forging Sans’ signature, or to all of it?

What’s the best response? In all honesty, he’d never suspected he’d get caught. He’d erased any possible evidence, had groomed Papyrus to be obedient and passive.

But it is now fifty minutes past the appointed meeting time, and Papyrus is _not here_.

Gaster scrolls once more through his phone and email—still nothing from Sans.

Possibilities run through his mind. He can stay put, deny all of Sans’ accusations against him. There’s no solid evidence, just the word of a child against that of the Royal Scientist. Asgore would vouch for him—the king thinks he knows who Gaster really is.

But Asgore has always had a soft spot for children, now especially so after the loss of his own. Asgore might not be as much of an ally to him as he once was.

If he absolutely had to, he could always…dust Sans. It would be a waste of a brilliant mind, a true waste. But another application would reach his desk. And Sans would not be the first to die by his hand.

The sudden blare of his phone startles him badly. Gaster takes the call.

“Doc!” It’s Sans on the other line. He sounds far from murderous or vengeful; instead, rather apologetic. “I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. I kind of, uh, forgot.”

For someone so smart, Sans can be surprisingly dull at times. Gaster pinches the bridge of his nose. “I assume there is a reason neither you nor Papyrus showed?”

“Yeah. Paps caught a bit of a bug in school today.”

“Is he alright?”

“He’ll be fine,” Sans assures him. “He just needs to rest up for a few days. I meant to call earlier, sorry.”

“Try not to forget next time. You gave me quite a fright.” In more ways than Sans could realize.

“Right.” Sans’ tone is not as sheepish as it should be. “Sorry again, doc. See you tomorrow.”

Sans hangs up. Gaster exhales deeply. Papyrus is merely ill. He had no real cause for alarm. He wills his soul to stop racing so fast.

~*~

Over a week passes without contact from Papyrus. When Sans finally drops the boy off at his doorstep, Gaster barely waits for him to leave before he sets upon Papyrus.

They don’t even make it out of the foyer. Gaster yanks away the boy’s backpack, tossing it out of the way.

“Hey—!” Papyrus’ protest is stifled as Gaster kneels down to kiss him, forcing his tongue past unwilling teeth.

When Gaster finally pulls apart for air, Papyrus is panting, face flushed.

“D-Dr. Gaster, wait—” Papyrus paws uselessly at his roving hands.

“Stop fighting me.” Gaster slips the child’s pants down even as he thrashes. He tightens his grip until it’s bruising. He can always heal it later.

Gaster has had a difficult week. Work has been frustrating and fruitless, every attempt to tame the beasts futile. Compounding that was his total lack of contact with Papyrus. He needs this.

“This makes you feel good, doesn’t it?” Gaster drags a moan out of him with a press of his knee to Papyrus’ pelvis. “So what’s the problem?”

“I…” Papyrus trails off, starting to sniffle.

“Don’t cry, my pet, don’t cry.” Gaster swipes up the tears with his thumbs, then sucks up their lingering taste with his tongue. “I’m doing this for you, don’t you see that?”

Gaster happens to glance up from Papyrus—and his soul stutters to a stop.

Watching him through the front window is Anton. A stack of papers slip from his grasp as he stares, astonished, at the sight of Gaster and Papyrus.

And then he starts running.

Gaster seizes Papyrus and sets him down on the living room couch.

“Stay here.”

“Who is that monster? Are we in trouble?”

“Stay _here_. If you so much as leave this couch you will regret it.”

Papyrus nods submissively, and Gaster storms from the room. He leaves the house at a dead sprint; in the brief seconds it took to move Papyrus, his assistant cannot have gone far.

He spies Anton a bit further down the path. He sees a flash of light—Anton’s cell phone.

Gaster sends a magic construct hurtling towards Anton with precise aim—it grazes his hand, forcing him to reflexively drop the phone. Anton hesitates between picking up the phone and continuing on just long enough. Gaster summons a massive hand of ice, his preferred element. It slams down on Anton, pinning him to the ground. As the cat monster struggles to get free, Gaster catches up.

Anton picks his head up as much as he’s able. His ears are pinned flat against his head, fangs bared.

“You’re a sick fucking freak.” He spits. “I can’t believe you. How can you do that to a _child_ , to Sans’ _brother_?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to anyone, least of all someone who’s about to die.”

Gaster summons a spear of ice to his hand, and raises it for the killing blow.

Then something wraps around his ankle and jerks his feet out from under him. His head smacks painfully against the ground. Gaster pushes himself up and spots the cause of his fall—magic like spun pink yarn is tangled around his leg. Gaster uses the spear of ice to cut himself free from the strands of magic.

Anton lashes another strand of yarn to a nearby tree. He hauls himself out of the hand of ice, standing once more. His tail lashes angrily behind him.

With a wordless cry Anton summons forth his magic. Yarn winds all around Gaster’s body, pinning him in place. A few thick cords lash around Gaster’s neck, squeezing the oxygen from his body.

It’s such a weak magic, capable of so little. Anton might’ve found creative avenues of attack with his power if the monster wasn’t so lazy with his training. Sloth will be his undoing.

Gaster does not require hand gestures to formulate magic, as novice magic users do. Jagged, enormous icicles fall from the sky, pelting the area around Anton. The cat monster dodges the attacks for the most part, but one manages to slice the back of his shoulder.

Anton hisses, pressing his opposite hand to the wound. He turns to run, to escape Gaster’s range, but Gaster is far older and more capable than him. A thick wall of ice materializes, blocking Anton’s way. As he whirls back to face his opponent, Gaster sends an icicle sprouting from the ground to pierce Anton’s chest, his soul.

To Anton’s credit, he does not plead for mercy or cower in fear in his final moments. He keeps up his venomous glower.

“They’ll catch you soon enough, you bastard.” Anton’s voice fluctuates in pitch and power as the dusting process begins. “I can’t…wait…to see you…suffer.”

Anton dissolves into dust. The magic constraining Gaster disappears. He takes a moment to recover, gasping much-needed oxygen back into his lungs.

He staggers over to Anton’s dust pile. It’s too much dust to carry in his hands alone.

Gaster hurries back to his house. In his earlier haste, the front door was left ajar. Gaster steps inside, checks the nearby clock on the wall—he has a little more than an hour before Sans arrives again to collect his brother. Gaster could call him, explain that they need an extra hour to go over concepts—but no. He doesn’t want to do anything out of the ordinary. The guard will eventually search for the murderer. He needs to arouse as little suspicion as possible. Thus, he’ll have to make due with the little time he’s allotted.

He checks on Papyrus from afar. The boy has pulled his pants back up to his waist, but is otherwise exactly how Gaster left him. Satisfied, he strides to the broom closet, selecting a dust pan and broom from the arrangement of cleaning supplies. Monster dust, when discovered by another monster, is traditionally collected by a relative in a special pan. Anton’s dust will have to make due with the same pan he uses to brush up dirt from his front porch.

Gaster returns outside to Anton’s remains. He sweeps up all the dust he can in the pan, and scuffs the ground to disturb any remaining grains. Thankfully, all of Gaster’s magic shatters upon contact with the earth; otherwise, there would be gaping holes in the ground where the icicles crashed down, which would be rather difficult to explain away.

Gaster walks to the nearby river, careful not to spill any dust from the pan. When he reaches the riverbed, there’s not another monster in sight, this far from New Home. Gaster dumps Anton’s remains in to the river, and watches the particles mix with the water and go rushing away.

He doesn’t watch too long, though. There’s more to be done. Gaster returns to where they had fought, and searches until he finds Anton’s cell phone. Sans’ contact information is pulled up—he was probably about call him before Gaster interfered.

Gaster returns to the front of his house, and snatches up every piece of paper he can find. Some of the pages have probably scattered in the wind. For now, there’s nothing he can do about that.

Gaster places the collected papers and cell phone in his basement. He’ll dispose of them later. He has just enough time remaining to deal with Papyrus.

The boy glances up as he strides into the room, but says nothing yet.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully.” Gaster says, lowly. “There were no other monsters here today besides the two of us. I was with you the entire time. Understand?”

“But—the other monster—where did he—?”

Gaster grabs Papyrus by the shoulders and gives him a firm shake. Papyrus flinches at the wild look in his eyes.

“There was no other monster.” Gaster reiterates. “Just, you, and me, in here, studying. Is that clear?”

As Sans said, Papyrus is not stupid. The gears turn in his head, and the lights in his eye sockets quiver with horror as he realizes why Gaster would need an alibi.

“No. You didn’t—you didn’t _hurt_ him—”

“If you tell anyone—the guard, your brother, _anyone_ —there will be consequences. I will take Sans from you.”

“S-Sans is the strongest m-monster ever! He’d beat you!”

Just then, the doorbell rings. Speak of the devil.

Gaster tightens his grip on Papyrus.

“Are you willing to take that chance? To gamble with your brother’s life? He’s a 1 HP monster, after all. One hit and he’d be dust, and it’d be _all your fault_.”

Papyrus’ breath hitches. The doorbell rings again.

Gaster stands.

“Now. Make yourself presentable.”

Papyrus miserably smoothens out his clothes and collects his backpack as Gaster opens the door for Sans.

“Yo.”

“I apologize for the wait. We were just finishing up a rather long lesson. Weren’t we, Papyrus?”

The boy says nothing, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Gaster nudges him, perhaps a bit too harshly.

“ _Papyrus_.”

The boy snaps to.

“Yes! It was tough at first but I think I’ve got it now.” His voice is so bright, not wavering on a single syllable. Threatening his brother seems to be a proper motivator.

Papyrus crosses to Sans’ side, latching onto his brother’s hand. Sans, more than used to his brother’s tactile nature, thinks nothing of it.

For once, Gaster is relieved to see Papyrus go. After he shuts the door behind the skeleton brothers, Gaster selects a savory scotch from his liquor cabinet and settles down to drink.

He tips the glass back, swirls the amber liquid in his mouth. He can do this. He just needs to be very, very careful in these coming weeks. Gyftmas is coming up in a little over a month. The guard will want to wrap up Anton’s death as an open-and-shut case so they can stay home with their families for the holidays. He just needs to act naturally, be smart, and this will all blow over.

Gaster drains his glass quickly. There’s more work to be done.

           


	3. Interrogation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I named Undyne's mom Mira, because I figured Undyne=Undying, so Mira=Miracle. Like mother like daughter.

The following day, Anton does not show up for work. Gaster watches silently as his remaining assistants talk amongst themselves, faces pinched with concern.

“He would have called if he wasn’t feeling well.” Saul says, worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

“Anton stayed late last night. I asked if he wanted to walk out with me, but he said he wanted to finish a few things up first.” Em’s voice lifts in hope. “Perhaps he stayed up too late last night and slept through his alarm?”

“I’ll call him,” Sans says decisively, punching in the cat monster’s number to his phone. The call cuts straight to voicemail; Sans, dismayed, snaps his cell phone shut to the robotic tones of the answering machine. The three of them turn to Gaster, silently asking what they should do next.

“We’ll mark today as a fluke.” Gaster makes the call. “If he does not show tomorrow, someone will be sent to his house to investigate.”

“Oh dead, oh dear, I do hope he’s alright.” Saul hugs himself, a self-comforting gesture.

Gaster turns to leave the room.

“Come now. There’s still work to be done, with or without Anton.”

“Guess the barrier won’t shatter itself, huh?”

Sans falls into step beside Gaster, though he has to take two steps for every single stride of Gaster’s long legs.

“So what are we doing today?”

Gaster glances down at his youngest assistant.

“You’re going in today.”

Sans stops short. Saul and Em, who were bringing up the rear, nearly bump into him.

“What?” Sans wants a confirmation, not willing to grow excited until he knows without a doubt that Gaster is promising him what he most wants.

“You heard me. It’s your turn with the constructs today.”

“Dr. Gaster!” Em gasps. “Please, reconsider.”

But Gaster shakes his head.

“The king himself called me in for a meeting last week. To say he was disappointed at our lack of progress would be an understatement.”

And oh, how it riles Gaster to be subject to King Asgore’s whims. The king, a monster who constantly tries to instruct Gaster on the methods and timeframes by which experiments should be completed, though he himself has no knowledge of or appreciation for the intricacies of science.

“He wants results within the next few months, or he’ll seriously consider pulling the plug on Project BOMB.”

Even Sans doesn’t crack a joke about how “Project BOMB” has “bombed”. All of them have invested too much in trying to make this work to find failure humorous.

“We are left with little choice but our last option. Prepare yourself, Sans. This is your chance.”

Sans says little as they navigate the halls of the lab, and Gaster does not speak either, leaving Sans to his mental preparations. They reach the storage room, where various cannons float in suspension. Sans looks around the room until he locates the same canine skull from that fateful afternoon.

Saul scuttles over to the computer, pressing a few keys to drain the fluid in the tube. The beast recovers from its stasis slowly enough that Gaster is able to cage it easily. His assistants follow as he tugs along the construct from its cell to the testing chamber.

Gaster sets the cage down in the room, but does not dispel the magic just yet. Sans’ hands are clenched in trembling fists, sweat beading on the sides of his skull.

“Are you ready, Sans?”

The small skeleton manages a jerky nod.

Em flashes a pleading look at Gaster, tail flicking with agitation.

“Let one of us stay in the room with him, at least.”

But Gaster denies her.

“We can’t. It would disturb the results, as you very well know. Now come.”

Saul gives Sans’ shoulder a squeeze, Em gives him a reassuring nod, and they move with Gaster to the observation room. Gaster allows Sans a moment more to gather himself before he releases the cage.

Em and Saul all but have their faces pressed to the glass, watching raptly and ready to intervene on Sans’ behalf at a moment’s notice.

The massive canine skull flickers to life, its glowing eyelights pinning Sans down.

Sans straightens up, for what that extra two inches is worth.

“Come over here.” Sans instructs, unable to keep the slight quiver from his voice. He wanted this, but it’s one thing to desire something in the abstract, and another to actually have it.

The cannon growls lowly, but does start to drift slowly towards Sans.

“That’s it, buddy, just like that. Nice and easy now…” Sans does not extend his hand out, as Anton had, not keen on the prospect of having to snatch it away from the beast’s jaws.

Sans stands his ground, and the beast’s growls morph into low warbling as it gets closer. Once it’s but a few feet away from Sans, it glides gently to the floor. Jaws shut, pliant. A demonstration of obedience.

Even now, Sans doesn’t dare take his eyes from the beast to glance in their direction.

“Seems like the big lug remembers me. Any, uh, suggestions on what to do next?”

Gaster presses the intercom speaker, hardly believing what he’s seeing. To think, they’ve been stonewalled all these months, and because of what? Because the construct had already selected its master?

“See if it will obey you.”

Sans stares at the construct, unsure.

“Um. Roll over?”

The beast grumbles, but obeys, flopping itself upside down.

“Go over to the corner of the room.” Sans points. It ambles over. “Come back.” It does.

Em summons targets on the far end of the room, away from Sans and the observation window.

“Tell it to shoot the targets!” She says, Saul helpfully pressing the intercom button for her.

Sans rocks back on the balls of his feet, gesturing for the beast to take it away.

“Go for it. Fire away.”

But the beast, for once, does not listen.

“Hey, buddy. C’mon. Do a guy a favor and shoot the targets, won’t you?”

But the beast’s jaws remain clamped shut, no magic building inside it.

“Frighten it,” Says Gaster. “Attack it until it’s forced to retaliate.”

Leashing the construct serves no purpose if it refuses to do what it was designed for.

“I’ll do it, but, fair warning. There’s not much to my magic.”

Sans sends several bone attacks careening towards the construct. Those it doesn’t dodge it snaps apart in its teeth. Sans launches a second wave, the pattern more intricate than the first. A few manage to brush against the beast, but they do damage so negligible they may as well have not hit. The construct rumbles happily, as if this is some game.

“Saul, go in.”

Gaster’s assistant snaps off his customary salute before entering the room with Sans. Saul gives the beast a lame little wave, tense and ready to call forth his own magic. The construct eyes him, but then flicks its gaze away, disinterested. A far cry from the raging beast that had once wrecked two rooms in the lab.

Saul separates himself from Sans and hurls his magic at the construct, trying to goad it into battle. Although Saul’s magic does a bit more damage than Sans’, it’s like a raindrop trying to erode a mountain. Gaster had built the constructs as the ultimate forces of war: they all house immeasurable attacking power and defense. A monster’s attacks won’t have any real effect; they were built to withstand the might of a human if need be. Gaster had hoped their magic would be enough to irritate it into firing, but that does not seem to be the case.

Gaster turns to Em. “Help them switch out the construct. Let’s see how far the others are willing to listen.”

~*~

Failure.

Trials on every functioning construct are performed, but though most of them have latched on to Sans, none of them will launch attacks when it’s requested of them. Gaster runs his assistants ragged, into the early hours of the morning (Sans is forced to step out momentarily to call a babysitter) before finally admitting defeat. Gaster sends them all home, generously giving them a few extra hours to sleep before being called back in.

Gaster himself doesn’t leave, remaining behind in the lab to burn through the hours in between with his own research. His exhausted brain is unable to dredge up anything useful—the only correlation he can find between Sans and the constructs is their physical bodies. Gaster had designed the beasts to resemble skeletons for a handful of reasons; it was simpler to assemble, more intimidating than a simple cannon. Perhaps they incorrectly perceived Sans as one of their own. Then, there’s the issue of their free will. They were carved out of the magic of several monsters for one sole purpose: destruction. And yet, when bidden, they refuse.

Gaster pulls older files, from back when the beasts were first given form. It had been a big ordeal, a large hullabaloo; guards, scientists, civilians, even the king himself, all donated to a large well of magic for the royal science team to pull from. For the first time in a very long time, monsters walked the streets with hope in their eyes. Together, united, they would overcome the humans’ curse.

If Gaster could just figure out how to get the damned things to _listen_.

“I see you got far.” Comes a wry voice from the doorway.

It’s Sans, in the same rumpled clothes from yesterday. With one hand he smothers a yawn, the other clutching a paper bag. The scent of fresh donuts wafts through the room.

“You’re here early.” It’s still an hour before the delayed call time. If anything, he expected Sans to arrive even later.

Sans shrugs. “Had to walk Pap to school anyway.”

He shuffles across the room, offering the bag to Gaster. Despite his usual aversion to sweets, Gaster can’t remember the last time he’s eaten, so he picks a donut out of the bag, one that looks to have the least amount of sugar.

Sans picks up one of the sheets of paper scattered about, chewing obnoxiously on his own donut.

“Monster records? What are these for?”

“It’s—”

“Oh, fuck.” Suddenly, Sans is much more awake. “I almost forgot. Has Anton shown up yet? He wouldn’t have known about the shifted schedule.”

Gaster blinks, really selling the surprised expression on his face. “…I haven’t seen him. I was rather distracted with all this.”

“I’m going to check around. See if anyone’s seen him.”

Sans jogs out of the room, worry hurrying his pace.

Gaster sighs, and gathers the papers into some semblance of order. He’ll have to go through all of this at a later date. He has everything neatly sorted when Sans reenters, slightly out of breath.

“I can’t find him anywhere, and he still won’t pick up when I call.”

Gaster stands. “Perhaps a personal visit is in order.”

He looks up Anton’s home address, and the pair make their way to the cat monster’s apartment in New Home. Sans shoots off messages to Em and Saul to inform them of what’s going on.

Their walk to the apartment is punctuated by the occasional nervous chatter from Sans. No doubt the young monster’s imagination is conjuring up all sorts of possibilities for Anton’s abrupt disappearance. Gaster regrets that he did not snatch a few hours of sleep when he had the chance—the guard proceedings would be difficult and taxing enough even if he didn’t have something to hide.

They ultimately reach the apartment. It’s one of the sorts with a buzzer for each apartment. Sans jams on the button for 7F for a whole minute; nothing. They’re let into the stairwell by a kindly monster on their way out, and they laboriously climb all the way up to the seventh floor.

Panting for breath, Sans beats on the door to Anton’s apartment. When there’s no response, he fishes out a hairpin from his shoe and starts to pick the lock.

“You know how to pick locks?” Gaster asks, knowing what the ability implies.

Sans gives away nothing, winking at him. “Just one of my many talents.”

With a definitive click the door unlocks, and Sans pushes it open. Gaster upturns his nose at the rank stench of the place; takeout boxes with half-rotten food in them lay strewn about the place. Disgusted, Gaster opens the nearby window, letting the smell be filtered out by the open air.

Sans and Gaster search the entire apartment, but Anton is absent. Sans then rummages in the kitchen drawers until he finds an address book. Locating Anton’s sister, he dials her number and waits for the call to connect.

Gaster, in the meanwhile, circles back around to Anton’s desk. He appears to have brought his work home with him, his own theories on the constructs scrawled across the pages of a notebook. Gaster flicks through the pages, but cannot glean anything from them that he does not already know.

“Ivana? This is Sans. I’m, uh, a friend of Anton’s. From work.”

Chatter on the other end of the line.

“That’s the thing—he didn’t come into work today or yesterday. We were kind of hopin’ he might be with you.”

Another pause, Sans’ face darkening by the second.

“I—I see. No, we’ll do it. Take care of yourself.”

Sans looks to Gaster.

“He’s gone. Ivana doesn’t know where he is, and neither do we.”

Sans is shaken up by this. Gaster calls the royal guard himself to report the incident.

~*~

Not ready to get a slap on the wrist for breaking and entering, Gaster and Sans leave Anton’s apartment and return to the lab. Sans fills Em and Saul in on what they found. The mood is heavy, and although Gaster is itching to get back to work on the construct problem, he has to give up on getting any work done today. His assistants huddle together, murmuring assurances to each other until _she_ enters the room. They all instinctively straighten—she has that kind of commanding presence that demands discipline.

Flaming red hair, hard yellow eyes, pointed teeth that jut free from her mouth, tattered facial fins, polished black armor—this is Mira, captain of the royal guard. She had been a child when they were sealed underground. But training and hard work lead her to climb the ranks swiftly. Gaster has made a concerted effort to avoid her at every one of the king’s parties that they’ve both been invited to. Her over-inflated sense of right and wrong does not mesh well with the sacrifices demanded for the advancement of real science.

“You’re the science team Anton Belikov was working with?” She wastes no time with pleasantries.

“That’s right.” Em confirms.

Mira joins them at the table, sitting down heavily. Another guard shuffles into the room, holding a small spiral notebook and pen dexterously in his large claws. He’s a dragon monster, with orange scales like unfurled flowers across his body.

“Name’s Mira, and that there is my second-in-command, Snapdragon.”

“Isn’t it a bit much for the captain of the royal guard to investigate one monster’s disappearance?” A common guard, Gaster could walk circles around. This woman, he isn’t so sure.

“I don’t believe you understand the full gravity of the situation,” She says, stirring Gaster’s ire with her patronizing tone. “The Underground is in a rut of stagnation and boredom. And now there’s a high profile scientist who’s missing, possibly dead—”

Saul gasps, and Mira has the decency to look apologetic.

“—My point is, the longer we let this drag on, the more the press, slavering for _anything_ to report, is going to make both the royal guards and scientists look like fools. So the sooner we solve this case, the better for all of us. I know this city, I know how people think. If someone did something to this monster, I’ll find out who.” Her gaze flicks to Gaster. “Or would you rather I put someone less experienced on the job?”

“I was simply curious.” Gaster all but bares his neck in submission.

“Snap and I are here now to get your initial statements. We want to know everything; who Anton is, who his friends are, when you last saw him. Also—”

Snapdragon pushes a form and pen towards Gaster.

“We need your permission to take the sifting prototypes from the lab and put them to use.”

Gaster looks to Em, a touch embarrassed. Something was in development in his lab, and he, so wrapped up in his own work, had most likely blindly signed the approval paperwork months ago.

“It’s a magical skimmer of sorts,” Em explains. “It’ll collect dust particles mixed into water. Too many monsters have gotten away with murder by disposing of the evidence.” Em turns to Mira. “But you don’t really think Anton is…dead…right?”

“We just want to make sure we’re covering all our bases,” Mira says, not unkindly. “Doctor, we need your signed permission to remove the prototypes.”

Gaster picks up the pen and signs. There’s little else he can do, really.

“Now,” Says Mira, as Snapdragon tucks the signed form away. “Tell me everything.”

~*~

Credit where credit is due—Captain Mira was mercilessly thorough, grilling the assembled scientists on anything and everything, Snapdragon dutifully taking it all down. Em was the last one of the group to see him; he was still at the lab when she went home for the night. Mira’s next step is to requisition the tapes from the cameras for the front doorway; Gaster allows this. He had opportunity enough to sabotage the tapes, but did not see the point. Em could reliably confirm Anton left after her, and to mess with the tapes would only tip the guard off that someone within the lab had something to hide. No, it was better to seem innocent and let the guard sweep through without any trouble. If Gaster is especially fortunate, Anton has some jilted lover from years ago with a score to settle.

Admittedly, Gaster had not anticipated the existence of the sifters. And oh, how ironic it would be, for him to be undone by a tool created in his own lab! But so what if they manage to find Anton’s dust within the river. So what? There’s still nothing to link Gaster to the murder. Gaster burned Anton’s cellphone and clothing the night of the crime, then gathered up the ash from his fireplace and dumped it in the magma. He effectively disposed of any evidence that proved Anton was around him.

Gaster has no known motive to kill Anton, and, best of all—he has a witness to cement his alibi at the time of the crime.

Said alibi sits before him on his bed, fidgeting. A week has passed by since the initial questioning, enough for any suspicion to slide off Gaster’s back, enough for him to feel safe enough to pull this stunt. Gaster takes the day off from work, calling in to express his apologies, citing exhaustion. His assistants are understanding, Em even remarking that he needs to take more vacation days. Gaster also arranged for Papyrus to skip school, waving goodbye to his brother and then abandoning the school gates for Gaster’s home.

Now his pretty prize sits uncomfortably atop Gaster’s sheets, with nervous anticipation for whatever Gaster’s about to do next.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you.” Gaster sighs gustily into Papyrus’ collarbone, delighting in how it makes him shiver.

Papyrus no longer resists his advances, the threats against his brother making him pliant. Gaster should have threatened Sans sooner.

Gaster licks at Papyrus’ sensitive neck, a hand winding down to rub against his sacrum. The boy tries to be unhappy about this, but it’s hard for him to focus on frowning under Gaster’s assault. The lights in his eye sockets glaze over as he’s consumed by the sensations.

Papyrus bucks against Gaster’s hand, a slave to his desire. Gaster’s gaze lingers hungrily on Papyrus’ smooth, exposed collarbone—and he bites down, hard enough to draw marrow, which wells to the roof of his mouth. The simultaneous jolts of pain and pleasure must be overwhelming—the boy’s soul pulses hard in his chest. Magic drips down from it shamelessly, soiling Gaster’s hand. Papyrus shudders, staring up at him with want, and Gaster needs—he needs—

Gaster disentangles himself from Papyrus, pushing himself upright on the bed. Concentrating, he summons forth his own soul, a dark violet. It is already slightly sticky with his arousal. He holds it out.

“Take it.”

“I—I shouldn’t. I’m not supposed to…”

But Papyrus reaches forward regardless, limbs still quivering from stimulation. He squeezes too hard with his inexperienced grasp. Gaster can’t help but moan loudly, and Papyrus releases his soul as if it burned him.

“Did that h-hurt? I don’t—I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Get off the bed.” Gaster rasps.

Papyrus obeys.

“On your knees.”

Uneasily, Papyrus kneels on the plush carpet. Gaster guides his soul back into Papyrus’ hands. If the boy were the vengeful type, he could try to crush the soul in his grip, inflict devastating pain upon Gaster. But it is precisely because he knows Papyrus would never do it that he trusts him with his soul.

“Rub it again, but gently.” Gaster instructs.

Papyrus’ thumbs glide across the soul, in a rhythm unsteady at first, that gradually grows more confidant.

“That’s it, that’s it. Keep that up.”

Despite his coaxing, Papyrus’ fingers falter as Gaster disrobes, his growing erection on full display.

“Keep going,” Gaster growls. Papyrus hurries to obey, stroking the soul at a faster and rougher pace than before, to make up for the momentary lapse.

“Now, whatever you do,” Gaster pushes Papyrus’ mouth open, as wide as it will go. “Don’t bite down.”

Gripping the sides of Papyrus’ skull with both hands, he slides his erection into Papyrus’ mouth.

Papyrus gags before he’s even halfway in, reflexively clenching Gaster’s soul in his hand. The rush of direct pleasure to his soul makes Gaster thrust instinctively, forcing himself completely into Papyrus’ mouth. Papyrus is crying now, but his soul still drips with desire. Gaster gets into a rhythm, sliding out until the tip of his erection is all that remains inside Papyrus’ mouth, before sliding fully in again. Papyrus, moaning around Gaster’s erection, presses the pulsating soul to his pelvis and bucks against it frantically.

“So good, Papyrus, you’re _so good_ —”

Gaster comes, semen splattering down Papyrus’ mouth and ribs, his soul shooting out a gush of magic against Papyrus’ pelvis. Papyrus swiftly follows after him, with a groan muffled by the erection still wedged inside his mouth.

Gaster slips out of him, and Papyrus collapses to the floor. Gaster reclaims his soul, pushing it back inside his chest, and sits back to admire his handiwork. Papyrus is coated from head to hips in mixed fluids, looking positively wrecked. He’s incapable of coherent speech, murmuring half-formed phrases that are lost after leaving his mouth.

Gaster bends over him, peppering kisses on his skull.

“Wonderful, Papyrus. Wonderful. You did so well. You’re so good.”

He pauses his ministrations, glances at the clock hung on the wall. Minutes left until the stroke of eleven. They still have hours to go.

He’ll permit Papyrus a few minutes to recover. His soul jumps eagerly in his chest, already anticipating the next round.

~*~

Gaster’s day with Papyrus leaves him sated and content. He walks to work the following day with a bit of a spring in his step. The morning air of New Home is crisp, but his coat and brisk pace stave off the cold. He’s forced to unbutton the coat as he nears the lab, Hotland’s ever-present heat making him start to sweat.

His good mood evaporates as he reaches the front of the lab. Blocking the way to the entrance is a throng of news-hungry reporters, cameras already rolling. They catch sight of him and rush over, and suddenly Gaster has fifteen microphones shoved in his face.

“Dr. Gaster? What is your response to Anton’s death? Were you two close?”

“Does this have something to do with Project BOMB?”

“Do the guard have any leads? What are your suspicions?”

On and on go the questions. Scowl on his face, Gaster forcibly pushes through the crowd.

“Get out of my way.”

Still they cling and swarm, desperate for a crumb of information. The flash from cameras is nearly blinding. He’s here to work, not deal with this.

Finally, he gets to the door. Gaster grasps the handle, but it won’t budge. Locked. Cursing, he fumbles for his employee card. He’s saved from having to locate it when the door opens the slightest of cracks, the receptionist peeking out at him. She opens the door just enough for Gaster to squeeze through and then slams it shut again, nearly squashing reporters’ hands in the door jamb.

“Sorry, Dr. Gaster. I locked it as soon as the crowd started to gather, to keep them from disturbing anyone inside.”

“You did well, Ms. Stanton.” Gaster straightens his tousled attire. “But tell me—do you know why they all say Anton is dead?”

Stanton’s face falls. “You didn’t catch the news last night, did you, sir?”

He hadn’t. After Papyrus was cleaned up and sent back home, Gaster spent the remainder of the day in a euphoric haze, before passing into a dreamless sleep.

Gaster bids farewell to the receptionist and lets himself into the longue area on his usual floor. Grabbing a remote, he turns on the television set, switching to the channel that shows reruns of yesterday’s programming.

That insufferable captain stands before gathered monsters in a press conference.

“….from several sources.” Mira is in the middle of an explanation. “We discovered dust from, as of now, sixteen different monsters, all reported missing. Anton Belikov was confirmed to be one of them.”

The room erupts into questions. Mira calmly holds up her hand, and the ground gradually falls silent again.

“My best guards are out investigating the other murders, and I personally am handling the Belikov case. These criminals will be caught swiftly and face due justice. Our prayers are with the lost monsters’ loved ones.”

Mira leaves the conference, and the feed cuts back to the news anchor table.

“We have reached out to King Asgore for a comment, but he has declined at this point. We will keep you updated as—”

Gaster shuts off the television, having seen enough. Anton has been confirmed dead, faster than he expected. But it is no matter. The river is huge and well known; just about anyone could have dumped the ashes in the rushing water.

Determined to not let his nerves take a hold of him, Gaster brews a pot of coffee and gets to work. He was hoping the files of the monsters who donated magic might give him some insight into the constructs’ mentalities, but he hasn’t been met with much success.

Em, Saul, and Sans slowly file in, expressions downcast.

“I see you’ve all heard the news.”

“I had my suspicions, but I never thought…” Em shakes her head. “It just doesn’t seem real, somehow.”

“I just don’t understand _why_.” Sans says, sounding heartbroken and frustrated. “He never seemed like the type to make enemies. So why would he be killed?”

“That’s what I’d like to find out.”

They turn to find Mira in the doorway, some papers tucked under her arm.

“Captain Mira,” Gaster greets her, trying his best to mask his agitation with her presence.

Mira grunts at him and slaps down five binder-clipped stacks of paper on the table.

“These are summons for all of you to attend a formal questioning tomorrow, along with copies of your rights.”

“Haven’t we already told you everything you know?”

Mira glowers at Gaster, yellow eyes flashing. “Perhaps the formality of the meeting will help jog your memory for any additional details.”

The captain breaks eye contact with Gaster to lock in on Sans.

“Sans, was it?”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

Mira picks two stacks from the pile and holds them out to the small skeleton.

“You’ll have to bring your brother along with you tomorrow.”

Sans’ grin grows strained. “Excuse me?”

“Aside from the sister and her family, the four of you were the ones he had the most contact with. If anyone was responsible for this, one of you knows something about it. Maybe one of you even did it.”

“That’s outrageous!” Saul jumps up, hands balling into fists. “We would _never_ hurt him.”

“Papyrus is too young for something like this,” Sans says, voice like steel. “You have no right to drag him into it.”

“If his story matches up with Gaster here, that’s all well and good. But if it does not, and Gaster stepped out for a minute or two just to “grab something”—Papyrus would know.”

“I do not appreciate what you are implying, captain.” Gaster says, coolly.

Mira snorts. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you appreciate. But if any of you don’t show up tomorrow, I will not hesitate to drag you, physically and publically, to the guard station. Anyone else have anything to say?”

The room is silent.

“Read your rights. I’ll be seeing you all tomorrow.”

Mira stomps from the room.

“I can’t believe her nerve!” Saul sits back in his chair with a huff. “What a rude person—to insinuate that _you_ , Dr. Gaster, of all people—!”

“I’m sure she’s under tremendous pressure to find a culprit,” Em cuts in. “Still, the way she spoke to all of us was highly uncalled for.”

Em drapes her tail around Sans’ shoulder, her version of a one-armed hug. Sans has crinkled the corner of the summons in his fist.

“Papyrus will be fine. It’ll just be a few questions.”

“That better be all it is. Or they’ll have me to answer to.” Sans vows.

~*~

The following morning finds Gaster in a waiting room at the guard station. Em is the first one brought in for questioning, leaving the rest of them waiting. On Gaster’s right sits Saul, tapping away at a game on his phone to take his mind off of the stressful situation. On his left is Sans, Papyrus at his side. The boy has brought a book of difficult Sudoku puzzles along, but he can’t seem to focus properly to solve them, spending more time erasing mistakes than writing correct numbers.

A camera is positioned in a top corner of the room, recording their every word and movement. Even if Gaster wanted to take Papyrus aside, he couldn’t. Nevertheless, Gaster is sure of his conditioning. He went over the alibi with Papyrus until he could recite it by heart, and the ever-present threat against his brother is sure to guarantee his silence.

On the other side of the room sit Ivana and her family. Ivana wears a hand-knitted sweater, of similar make to those Anton used to wear. Her daughter’s head is pillowed in her lap, and Ivana scratches the top of her head soothingly. Her husband eyes the lot of them distrustfully. Evidently he was buying into the tales the media has been spinning about the scientists.

After Em, Ivana’s family is called in one by one. Em sticks around for moral support, teaming up with Saul to engage Papyrus in conversation and out of his shell.

After the cat family is sent out, Saul is called in. Then Sans. All three scientists promise to watch over Papyrus in the meantime. Sans pats his brother on the skull and steps inside. His session with the guard lasts nearly as long as Em’s and Saul’s combined, but eventually he emerges from the room. Snapdragon steps out with him, staring down impassively at a clipboard.

“Dr. Gaster.”

All eyes are on Gaster as he fluidly stands, making his way over. Snapdragon leads him down the hall to a room empty save for Mira, a table, and three chairs.

Snapdragon reclaims his seat by the captain’s side, leaving Gaster to take the chair directly under the lamp, a classic gambit to make a suspect uncomfortable. Gaster merely rolls up his sleeves.

“Wingdings Gaster. Born above surface, migrated down when the barrier was sealed. One of the last of your species. Never married. Didn’t want to further the line?”

“I had more on my mind than begetting children.”

“Yes, yes,” Mira says, unimpressed, as she scans his file. “Dr. Gaster, the great savior of the Underground, who harnessed the Core’s power to give us all the electricity we use to light our homes.” She looks up from her notes. “You know, I donated to Project BOMB myself. I gave so much magic that day, I passed out.”

“Are you expecting a medal?”

“It must really rile you,” Mira barrels on. “You’ve been on top for so long, and now you’re scrambling to make this next project work.”

Mira leans over the table, glaring him down. Gaster stares up defiantly into those yellow eyes.

“Anton Belikov stayed late that night to do further research. He discovered something, and couldn’t wait until tomorrow. So he rushes to your house to tell you his findings. Maybe he found the solution that you were so desperately searching for. Or maybe he had an altogether different plan for shattering the barrier. Either way, you couldn’t take it. Who was _he_ , your lowly assistant, to succeed where _you_ failed? To steal the credit that you deserved?”

If she’s expecting an angry outburst, she won’t get one. Gaster folds his hands calmly on the table.

“All of this is speculation. Anton was an exceptional employee, and I am deeply sorry he’s no longer with us.”

Mira sinks back down into her chair.

“Are you sure he was actually killed?” Gaster continues.

“Dust doesn’t lie.”

“No, I mean—Anton was an amiable monster, but it was always clear to me there was something beneath the surface. Perhaps he was stressed and unhappy, and decided to, well…take matters into his own hands.”

“And what?” Mira arches one red eyebrow. “His dust magically got dumped into the river?”

“It could have blown in.”

“You don’t seem to know Anton as well as the others seem to.” Mira steers the conversation back to where she wants it.

“It is true that I was not as close to Anton as the others were, but I was somewhat distant to all three of them. My position as their boss created an insurmountable gap.”

“Except for Sans.” Snapdragon taps his pen against his teeth, thoughtfully. “You seem to show an interest in him and his brother.”

“Yes, tell us, Gaster.” Mira is on the attack again. “How would you describe your relationship with Sans and Papyrus?”

This is the real moment of truth. Gaster takes a deep breath.

“To be perfectly frank with you, Sans can be something of a little shit at work. He distracts the staff with pranks and puns— _endless_ puns. But, he has drive and ambition, and the talent to back them up. Despite the grief he gives me, I hired him for good reason.”

“And Papyrus?” Mira prompts.

“I’ve told Sans before what I’m telling you now. I haven’t pried too far, but it’s clear Sans is the only “adult” in the picture for Papyrus. I suppose I see myself as a surrogate parental figure for the boy.”

“And the gifts?”

“What parent wouldn’t want to see their child properly clothed and fed?”

Mira and Snapdragon continue to barrage him with questions—even insinuating, at one point, that Gaster and Sans were engaged in an affair, to Gaster’s amusement—but no matter how they poke and prod they can’t get around his impeccable poker face and perfect responses. It’s with great frustration and reluctance that Mira dismisses him, and Gaster walks back with Snapdragon to the waiting room.

“Papyrus.” The royal guard summons. Sans leads his younger brother to the door, but Snapdragon bars the way.

“ _Only_ Papyrus.”

“Why can’t I go in with him?” Sans challenges. Papyrus grips the hem of his shirt, twisting it anxiously, wide eyes darting between Sans and Snapdragon.

“We want him to feel safe enough to speak freely.”

“He’s safe with me—he tells me everything!”

“Sans.” Gaster puts a hand on the skeleton’s shoulder. “It will go all the more faster if you simply cooperate.”

Biting back a frustrated sigh, Sans crouches down in front of Papyrus.

“Look, bro. You’ve done nothing wrong and won’t get in trouble. Just tell the guards the truth, alright?”

Papyrus nods. Sans leans in and gives his brother a quick hug.

“I’ll be waiting right here for you when you’re done, okay?” Sans promises.

“Okay,” Papyrus says, meekly.

Sans backs off, and Snapdragon leads Papyrus back to the interrogation room.

“Sit and calm yourself.” Gaster steers Sans back into one of the plastic chairs. He only notices now that they’re alone in the room. “Where have Em and Saul gone?”

“I told ‘em to go home.” Sans says, his weariness palpable. “Not much else for them to do here.”

Gaster takes a seat beside Sans.

“I will remain with you until Papyrus returns.”

“Aw, doc. You don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind. I imagine this is hard for you.”

And he needs to know what Papyrus says to them. If he tells the truth—the real truth—Mira will charge into the waiting area, magic drawn. Gaster is sure he’d be able to evade her long enough to get away. But if Gaster wasn’t here, it would give the hot-headed captain time to cool down, to carefully plan out his capture. Given that, she might succeed.

Sans clears his throat, awkwardly.

“Listen, doc. I don’t mean any offense, but…I think it’d be best if Papyrus stopped coming to your place for language lessons.”

“I understand—”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, really! I just think—”

“Sans, it’s alright. Truly. I’m not offended.” Besides, with Papyrus skipping class now and again, Gaster has been managing to get his fix in other ways for some time now.

“I just want to keep him close, until this all blows over. The media crowd has been nice enough to leave him alone for now, but still.”

“I have taught Papyrus several memorization techniques. He should be fine.”

Sans tips back in his chair, balancing his body weight by its back two legs alone.

“This is crazy, isn’t it? I hope they find whoever did this soon.”

“With someone like her on the case, I’m sure they will.”

That manages to get a short chuckle out of Sans.

After an agonizing wait for the two of them, Papyrus returns with Snapdragon in tow.

“How’d it go?” Sans takes Papyrus’ hand.

“Fine.” Papyrus says.

“They didn’t give you a hard time, did they?”

Papyrus shakes his head. “They were really nice.”

“You’re all set for today,” Snapdragon says. “If we need anything else, we’ll be in touch.”

Sans looks down at his brother.

“How does ice cream for lunch sound?”

“ _Sans_!” Papyrus scolds him, though without the usual heat. “That’s unhealthy!”

“A milkshake, then.” Sans leads his brother to the door, Gaster trailing behind the pair. “There’s milk in it. Calcium. For strong bones.”

“I _suppose_ a milkshake is acceptable.”

As they’re about to walk out the door, Papyrus glances back at Gaster, and gives him the smallest of nods.

~*~

It’s several days before Gaster feels secure enough to meet with Papyrus again. The frenzied media started to follow him back to his house. Gaster complained to the guard—he’s a monster that requires peace and quiet to work—and the guard issued a mandate that the press can only hound him in New Home proper and around the entrance to the lab.

A few daring reporters ignored the warning, tromping onto Gaster’s private property in the hopes of snapping an exclusive picture. Gaster was brought to the point where he was forced to weave a perimeter spell around the borders of his property. Now, the first steps into his turf by an unauthorized monster will inflict them with frostbite; continuing further will freeze them solid. The reporters got the hint and stopped showing up, glaring sullen daggers at him each day as he enters the lab.

Once his perimeter is firmly established, he arranges for Papyrus to meet him.

“Did anyone see you?” Gaster asks, as he lets Papyrus in.

“No. I took the path through the woods, like you said.”

Gaster kneels down and kisses the side of Papyrus’ skull, fingers reverently stroking the boy’s mandible. The first of many rewards he intends to bestow upon Papyrus today.

“Dr. Gaster? There’s—There’s something I want to say.”

“Go on then.”

Papyrus fidgets, gathering his courage. Then, he blurts:

“I think we should stop this. I won’t tell anyone. Not Sans, not Captain Mira, no one. I _promise_.”

Gaster sighs. “And to think, today I was going to reward you for your good behavior at the guard station.”

“I don’t want to do this any more. I just don’t!”

Gaster idly traces the contours of Papyrus’ skull with his long fingers.

“You surprise me, Papyrus, with your utter selfishness.”

Papyrus is taken aback, face crinkling with hurt. “W-What?”

“No wonder they never want to play with you on the school ground. No wonder they all hate you. You never think of anyone besides yourself.”

“That’s n-not true! I—”

“Who do you care about? Truly? Who would you place above yourself? _Sans_? You don’t really love him, not for who he is. He’s a slob that leaves messes everywhere and drives you up the wall with bad humor that he never knows when to turn off. But he clothes and shelters you, he _entertains_ you.”

“Stop it!” Papyrus shrieks. “That’s not—I’m not—”

“Sans does so much for you, but when you need to do this _one_ thing to protect him, you refuse. _I_ have given you so much, more than you could ever imagine, and still you deny me.”

Gaster takes Papyrus by the wrist, leading him to the bedroom.

“But I will show you how wrong you are. How good this can be.”

He pushes Papyrus onto the bed, but does not climb on top of him as he usually does.

“Disrobe,” Gaster orders. With trembling hands, the boy starts to strip.

Gaster rummages through his closet until he locates the dress. He carefully unwraps his beloved’s dress, and brings it out into the open for Papyrus to see. The boy has stripped down to nothing, knees tight to his chest for some modicum of modesty.

“Put this on.”

Gaster looks away while Papyrus dresses, wanting the sight to be a surprise. The fabric shifts, the bed creaks. Gaster waits.

“I-I’m done.” Papyrus whispers out.

Gaster turns, and the sight takes his breath away. The blue silk and purple trim look beautiful against the alabaster of Papyrus’ bones.

The dress is a little too large for him, the shoulder straps slipping down his arms. Papyrus struggles to tug the fabric up, to hide his semi-bared chest, but that just lifts the bottom of the dress higher, teasing Gaster with a glimpse of his femurs.

Gaster closes the distance between them in an instant, licking and sucking at Papyrus’ bared collarbone. Papyrus squeaks as Gaster reaches under the dress, up through his ribcage, to pull out Papyrus’ soul.

“No! Don’t touch— _ahnnn._ ”

Gaster takes Papyrus’ soul into his mouth, swirling it around with his tongue. The heat of Gaster’s mouth and the stimulation from his tongue leave Papyrus moaning for more.

Gaster removes the soul from his mouth, holding it in one hand, stroking it firmly. With his free hand, Gaster lifts the bottom frills of the dress, exposing Papyrus’ squirming pelvis. Gaster drags his tongue across Papyrus’ ilium. The musty scent of the dress mixes delightfully with Papyrus’ scent and arousal.

“Oh, mmm, yes, that’s—ahn—nice…”

Papyrus falls apart under his touch. While his tongue explores the contours of Papyrus’ pelvis, he also starts to focus some magic into the palm which holds Papyrus’ soul.

Part of the reason soul protection is so emphasized in schools is still unknown to Papyrus, taught at a much older age. The soul is the raw, sensitive essence of a monster’s being. Someone in possession of another monster’s soul can inflict pain and pleasure—but also, ideas. A monster can exert thoughts and emotions onto vulnerable, open souls such as a child’s, such as Papyrus’. Gripping Papyrus’ soul tightly in his fist, he infuses it with the need to submit, the desire to serve, a bottomless lust to worship another. It won’t be enough to radically flip Papyrus’ personality, but now, lurking within his subconscious, will be the urge to be dominated and possessed by another.

Papyrus cries out as he’s brought to a shuddering climax. He gazes dully up at Gaster, face flushed.

“Do you see now, Papyrus?” Gaster murmurs against the dripping texture of his soul. “This is what you were _made_ for.”


	4. Presents

Gyftmas is but a week away, and the streets of New Home have erupted in a flurry of activity. The commercial district is crammed with last-minute shoppers, all jockeying for remaining stock. Other monsters scavenge their gifts from the dump, from the mountains of human garbage that pollute their rivers. Gaster prefers items made by monsters. They’re typically more expensive than whatever is scrounged up from the trash, but more care and craft is put into them; unlike humans, monsters take pride in their work.

Gaster makes his way through the crowd, brushing errant flakes of snow from his face. The Underground does not have natural weather patterns. The area around the Core is perpetually hot, thanks to the exposed magma. Waterfall is a muggy swamp, and Snowdin, perpetually frigid. Home had been chosen first and foremost for its neutral temperature. And, once they had moved, New Home was selected for the very same reason.

Still, monsters haven’t forgotten the shifts of the seasons. To put monsters in a merry mood around Gyftmas, King Asgore had the royal scientists create a snow machine years ago, to shower New Home in flurries. It had been a simple design, all things considered, especially given Gaster’s predilection for ice elemental magic.

Gaster cranes his neck upwards, squinting into the distance. Far above them, several of the snow machines are rigged up to the roof of their prison, sending fat, fluffy flakes of snow down to the populace.

After much wading through crowds, Gaster finally reaches his destination: Toyland. The largest shop in the Underground for children’s toys.

Gaster steps inside, frowning at the sizeable crowd of parents and relatives crammed into the aisles, all fighting to snatch the latest gadgets off the shelves. Normally, Gaster would perform his Gfytmas shopping weeks ahead of schedule, to avoid this very thing. But Mira’s investigation, along with the dogged paparazzi, left him little time to himself. Just as he expected, though, the boiling pace of the investigation has settled down to a simmer. The captain can’t move forward without any solid leads. The press, desperate to drag out the story, dug deep into Anton’s past, unearthing a sordid history of gambling, many years ago. Rumors about Gaster and the science team gradually ebbed, the media shifting focus to a fresh angle; some old acquaintances had come to collect what they were owed.

Ivana vehemently and publically denied the defamation of her dear brother’s name. Anton had changed for the better, had reinvented himself years ago. He had used his wages to pay off any outstanding debts he owed from back then. Someone else is responsible, Ivana insisted.

Her voice, however, is just one wave in an ocean of opinions, and with every week that passes, Anton slips more and more from an innocent victim to someone who got his comeuppance. And Gaster has hardly had to lift a finger to steer attention off of him.

Gaster walks down the aisles of the toy story, musing over Papyrus’ gift. He has already gotten presents for those he was obligated to give to. He’d purchased a bouquet for Ivana’s family, along with a handwritten card expressing his condolences. To the royal guard headquarters, he sent along a few bottles of chardonnay, to thank them for all their efforts in investigating his employee’s murder. For Saul and Em, he picked up the traditional sheet of rich, delectable chocolates as he did every year.

Sans, he had given some thought to, and ultimately settled on a telescope. Back when Papyrus had begun his language lessons with Gaster, he had enthused over his numerous trips out to Waterfall with his brother, to gaze upon the glittering rocks. The telescope would be a perfect gift, if a bit ironic; instead of keeping a close eye on his younger brother, he delivered Papyrus up into Gaster’s arms.

Gaster hesitates in the section of board games and puzzles. The young skeleton has demonstrated several times over his proficiency in such mental exercises. He scours the aisle, but ultimately leaves unsatisfied; the puzzles available are all too simple. Gaster wants to give Papyrus something he can use for a considerable amount of time. Something to remind the boy of him.

Gaster walks further into the store, passing simple gifts like toy trucks and action figures, stopping as he reaches a section of stuffed animals. The plush figures have been set up in a wonderful array. He immediately hones in on the stuffed rabbits; Papyrus mentioned on occasion his love for a bedtime story about them. Gaster picks out the one with the softest fur, the floppiest ears, the highest price tag. Papyrus deserves it.

He’s almost to the register, when his attention is caught by something large and red. Gaster moves towards it, to get a closer look. It’s a frame for a child’s bed, thick plastic modeled to look like a sports car.

It’s perfect, just what he is looking for; Papyrus won’t be able to sleep without thinking of him. Gaster tugs the price tag off, and brings both it and the stuffed rabbit to the registers.

He’s helped by a portly mouse monster. Cooper reads the nametag pinned to his cheery Gyftmas sweater. Mice are fond of names subtly related to cheese, their favored food. He scans the tag first.

“Oh! The racecar bed. I’m sure your boy will love it; many tykes have had their eye on it.”

Cooper hands Gaster a blank card and a pen.

“Just write down your contact information, and we’ll arrange for the bed to be delivered to your home.”

Gaster does so. After Cooper tucks away the card, he picks up the stuffed animal.

“You want it boxed here, yes?”

Gaster nods.

Cooper swaddles the rabbit plush in green and red tissue paper, before putting it inside a red box.

“Now, what ribbon will you be having?”

The cashier gestures to a set of several ribbons behind him, all Gyftmas-themed.

 Inspiration strikes.

“I’ll take the one on the far end of the bottom row.”

Cooper grabs a strand of green ribbon, spotted here and there with snowmen.

“Very good choice, sir.”

“I must ask; are these the only styles you have?”

Cooper finishes tying off the bow on the present with a flourish.

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“I have some additional presents at home. They’re already wrapped, but without bows.” Gaster says. “Do you perhaps have a larger selection to choose from elsewhere?”

Cooper nods enthusiastically. “I’ll take you out to storage, we’ve got all sorts!”

Tucking the wrapped present securely under his arm, Cooper leads him through the crowd, into an expansive back storage room.

“Some folks order from us all the way out in Snowdin, so we wrap the presents for them here before we ship them over.” Cooper explains, as he leads Gaster to the wrapping station. There are boxes, wrapping paper, and spools of ribbon set out.

Gaster scans the colorful ribbon display, and his gaze falls upon the perfect choice. A pale lilac, silk-smooth and not too thick across.

Cooper cuts off a length of the ribbon, and bags it up for him. He’s rung up swiftly, and Gaster leaves the shop, excitement making his soul thump hard in his chest.

~*~

School has been let out for the holiday.

Papyrus fabricates a believable lie to his brother—he’s heading out to play in the fresh snow with some of his friends—and arrives on Gaster’s doorstep before too long. There’s no longer fear in Papyrus’ eye lights, nor resigned acceptance. Instead, there’s a detached calm to him as he’s led into Gaster’s bedroom.

His controlled veneer won’t last long. Gaster delved into some of his older books in their time apart, which covered skeleton physiology. Skeletons are fairly unique monsters, in regards to their lack of visible sexual organs. This most likely came about due to their long lifespans; sex is less of an urgent need for them, compared to humans and other groups of monsters. This explains why they’re more difficult to stimulate, as well. Skeletons frequently use their souls alone for the sake of sharing pleasure, reserving genitalia for solely reproductive purposes. However, with proper methods of stimulation, a skeleton monster can be aroused enough that genitals manifest instinctively.

Gaster hurriedly strips Papyrus of his many layers, tossing the clothing off the side of the bed.

“Lie down on your chest.”

Papyrus obediently settles on the bed, but turns his head to watch as Gaster rummages through the bedside table, pulling out the length of ribbon. Gaster lets it unspool, then winds it back around his fingers.

Papyrus’ face scrunches in confusion, unsure of Gaster’s intentions. Well, he plans to enlighten him soon enough.

Gaster climbs onto the bed, situating his legs on either side of Papyrus’ own. His hand brushes over Papyrus’ pert little tailbone, to rest on his sacrum.

Papyrus strains his neck, trying to watch him.

“Eyes forward.”

Papyrus reluctantly turns to stare ahead at the headboard of the bed.

Gaster’s fingers trail along his sacrum, tracing and caressing every dip and curve of the bone. The simple touch has already had an impact on the boy. He’s squirming at the feather-light touches, the dull glow of his soul lighting up his ribcage.

Gaster pinches the lilac ribbon between his fingers, and threads it through the first hole of Papyrus’ sacrum.

He feels Papyrus flinch under his hands, his body uncomfortable with the sensation of something intrusive worming through the crevices of his body.

Gaster does not slow his ministrations, threading the ribbon through the small holes of Papyrus’s sacrum until he reaches the top.

“Turn over.”

Papyrus flips over gingerly, trying not to rest his pelvis on the bed. His face is aflame with both shame and arousal. Gaster leans in, and ties off the end of the ribbon into a bow.

Papyrus chokes off a broken moan as Gaster gives the bow a firm tug, tightening the knot. An orange glow emanates from his pelvis. Gaster strokes at it, encouraging his magic to coalesce.

“Come on, Papyrus, don’t hold back. I want to see you.”

Gaster tugs the ribbon roughly, and Papyrus shudders at the forceful jolt to his sensitive sacrum.

The magic at the tip of his pelvis swirls, thickens. Gaster draws his hand back, and Papyrus forms his cock for the first time.

“Wonderful, Papyrus.” Gaster praises him.

It’s small, but it’s to be expected at his age. Gaster encloses his fist around it, and starts to slowly stroke, up and down. Gaster’s teasing of his sacrum has already gotten him rather worked up, and Papyrus soon hardens in Gaster’s hand, precome beading at the tip.

Papyrus rocks up, pressing into his hand. He’s unused to this form of stimulation, but he clearly enjoys it.

Gaster swipes his thumb over the head. It doesn’t take much to bring Papyrus to the edge, overstimulated as he is.

Gaster reaches a hand under him, and grips the crisscrossed ribbons and yanks _hard_.

With a wordless cry, Papyrus comes, hot ejaculate filling Gaster’s cupped hand.

Gaster brings his slickened fingers up to his mouth, sucking at the taste that is so distinctly Papyrus.

“You liked that, didn’t you?”

“…Yes.” Papyrus admits. There’s little point in denying it, the truth still dripping from Gaster’s fingers.

Gaster pulls him closer.

“Let’s see what else you’ll enjoy.”

~*~

Sans is at the door waiting for him as he reaches their apartment. His grin is wide; it seems the impending holiday has allowed him to set aside his stress and grief for the moment.

“Glad you could make it, doc. Come on in.”

Sans steps back, letting his boss inside. Gaster kicks the snow off his boots onto the welcome mat. He had had the racecar bed sent here after placing the order. Two days later, Sans called him up, claiming he’d never seen Papyrus so excited. As thanks for his generous gift, Sans invited him over to share in their Gyftmas Eve dinner.

Gaster observes the apartment space with a critical eye. The skeleton brothers aren’t living in cramped squalor, but the apartment is snug, a cozy size. The bed must have _just_ fit in Papyrus’ room.

He hands off two wrapped presents to Sans.

“More stuff? Doc, you really didn’t have to.”

“It was no trouble.” Gaster waves Sans’ sentiment away.

Paper decorations, undoubtedly Papyrus’ doing, are taped up along the walls, showing various winter scenes, such as Papyrus with a Gyftrot, and he and Sans smiling beside a pair of snowmen. Snowflakes have been cut out of construction paper and placed on the windows. Gaster notes that Papyrus was clever enough to use a different pattern for each cutout; no two snowflakes are alike, after all.

A Gyftmas tree is nestled in the corner of the living room, wrapped in multicolored lights which cast a pleasant glow around the room.

Only one present is set below the tree so far. It’s shoddily wrapped, “To Sans” scrawled on the paper in a chicken scratch penmanship; Papyrus’ gift to his brother, probably hand-made in one of his school classes.

Sans settles Gaster’s presents underneath the tree as well.

“Tell me, how has Papyrus been?” As far as Sans is aware, Gaster has not seen Papyrus since they were all called in to the royal guard headquarters.

Sans glances over towards the hallway, but there’s no sign of Papyrus emerging from his room yet.

“He’d been feelin’ a bit down, the past couple days before the bed came,” Sans says, lowly so as not to be overheard. “He came back from playing with his friends all sore and half-frozen.”

Half-frozen? Gaster’s brows furrow. He’d assumed Papyrus had gone straight home after their session. What had he been thinking, dawdling out in the cold for?

“So I kind of, uh, banned him from going outside for a bit.”

Now that won’t do.

“You shouldn’t punish him so severely. I’m sure he simply lost track of time.”

“What, are you tellin’ me how to parent, now?” There’s a bite to his voice, underneath his joking tone.

“Of course not. You’ve done a wonderful job of raising Papyrus.”

There’s the sound of a door opening from deeper inside the apartment.

“Sans, is someone here?”

Sans moves past Gaster to meet his brother at the end of the hallway.

“Sure is, kiddo. Look who it is.”

Sans steps out of the way, letting them get a view of each other. Papyrus is dressed for Gyftmas, in bright red jeans and a thick, festive sweater. There’s the pattern of a wreath sewn into the front, complete with two jingling red bells serving as sprigs of holly.

Gaster smiles at him. “Hello, Papyrus. It’s wonderful to see you again.”

Sans frowns at Papyrus’ stricken expression.

“Pap?”

“Sans, why is he here?” Papyrus asks, weakly.

“I thought—didn’t you like going over his place?” Confusion is thick in Sans’ voice with his brother’s odd reaction. “And he got you that nice bed and everything.”

“I’m sure he’s just being shy.” Gaster cuts in. He flashes a sharp look at Papyrus over his brother’s shoulders.

“I’m just…surprised.” Papyrus manages. “Dr. Gaster is very busy.”

“Not busy enough to miss out on paying a visit to my number one student.”

Gaster holds out his arms in welcome invitation. Papyrus hesitates, only for a moment, and then rushes over to give the doctor a hug. Gaster’s hand comes down, patting Papyrus on the back. He can feel Papyrus’ bones rattling beneath his sweater.

The boy startles as an alarm beeps.

“Whoops. That’ll be the rolls.” Sans hurries into the kitchen to grab them out of the oven before they can burn.

Once Sans is far enough away, Gaster grips Papyrus’ collarbone firmly.

“Behave,” He warns.

Papyrus shudders at his low tone, but this time, not out of fear.

They move into the kitchen area, just as Sans removes the pan of rolls from the oven, levitating it out with his magic up to a cooling rack. The pleasant smell wafts throughout the room.

Gaster and Papyrus take seats at the table, the latter sitting atop a cushion to boost his height.

Gaster hunts around for a cloth napkin, but finds none. He resigns himself to laying a paper towel over his lap instead.

Sans lays out a complete spread for the dinner: roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, glazed carrots, cranberry sauce, and of course the rolls, which managed to escape the oven only lightly singed. The multitude of dishes just barely leaves enough space on the table for their individual plates.

A cup of milk is given to Papyrus, while Sans brings out a bottle of wine for the two of them.

Gaster picks up the bottle. A store brand, but expensive. Gaster appreciates Sans’ efforts to create a proper holiday meal, even if the overall result is lacking.

Sans and Gaster serve themselves, but Sans spoons Papyrus’ meal onto his plate himself.

From the corner of his eye, Gaster watches Papyrus pick at his meal. But when Sans glances his way, he always has a forkful of food halfway up to his mouth.

“Tell me, Papyrus. How has school been? You’ve been keeping up with your studies, I hope.”

The boy’s grades have actually been slipping as of late, but Gaster has signed off on every paper with Sans’ forged signature.

“Great!” Papyrus lies through his teeth. “After the break, we’re starting a new monster language. Feline!”

“That reminds me of a joke.” Sans says. “Would you like to hear it?”

“No.” Is Papyrus’ immediate response.

Sans continues on anyway. “Great, here it goes. Why didn’t the teacher trust the cat monster?”

“Sans.”

“Because he was a _cheetah_.”

“Sans!” Papyrus moans, but his mouth pulls up into a genuine smile for the first time tonight.

The dinner continues on in much the same way. Gaster asks questions about Papyrus’ going-ons at school, which allows the boy to chatter on at length. Sans interjects occasionally, always armed with puns and bad humor. It’s hardly the most stimulating conversation, but Sans very clearly does not want to talk about work with Papyrus in the room, which greatly limits Gaster’s discussion topics.

When they’ve cleared their plates, Sans stacks their dirty dishes atop one another.

“I’ll wash up,” Sans carries the precarious stack of dishes over to the sink. “Pap, why don’t you show the doctor how cool the bed looks?”

“Sure!” Papyrus agrees, with feigned enthusiasm.

Papyrus leads Gaster through the hall. They pass by a bathroom and a smaller room, heading for the master bedroom.

“Here’s my room,” Papyrus mumbles, without aplomb.

Gaster steps inside, taking a moment to soak it all in. The racecar bed has automatically become the centerpiece of the room, the bright red really popping out against the white walls.

Gaster inspects the bookshelf, a curious medley of puzzle books and children’s bedtime stories. A multitude of action figures are stuffed into an overflowing toy chest. There’s a small desk where Papyrus must do his homework. Above it is a window, which leads to the apartment’s fire escape. A thick padding of snow is building on the frame of the sill.

Papyrus fidgets in place as Gaster walks around his room. How many nights has Papyrus lain awake in here, crying furious tears over Gaster’s touch? And now the monster is here, invading his place of refuge. Gaster can only imagine how Papyrus feels at this moment.

Gaster inspects the desk. Three pencils are lined up in a perfectly straight row, right beside a sketchbook. Curious, Gaster flips through it. He’s not sure quite what he expects to find, but there’s not a hint of grief or rage in these pages. There are a few sketches of Sans—sleeping in every single one—as well as a few landscapes. Well done, especially considering his age. Papyrus might be able to make something of his artistic talent, one day.

“These are impressive.” Gaster commends him.

“…Thank you, Dr. Gaster.”

“Sit down with me.” Gaster takes a seat on the bed. Papyrus sits as well, but too far away from Gaster for his preference.

Gaster slings an arm around his shoulder, pulling Papyrus close enough that their knees press against each other. The bells on Papyrus’ sweater jingle at the movement. Gaster’s hand starts to stroke and massage Papyrus’ neck.

“But Sans is…”

“Distracted with the dishes.” But excitement coils in his gut; there’s something undeniably thrilling about indulging in this when Sans is a mere twenty feet away.

Gaster tilts Papyrus’ chin up, and engages him in a hungry kiss. Papyrus reciprocates, forming his own tongue. After getting him to form his ecto-genitals, manifesting his tongue was simple.

Gaster’s hand trails down, stroking the front of the boy’s pants. Already growing wet, needy; if Gaster keeps this up much longer, the fabric will be soaked through.

So reluctantly, Gaster disentangles from Papyrus, readjusting the boy’s clothes. Papyrus is dazed, a heavy blush on his face.

After giving him a moment to recover, he steers Papyrus back into the living room, where Sans waits idly.

“What took you so long? Get lost?”

“Papyrus just wanted to show me his action figures.” Gaster explains. “It was quite the collection.”

“Aw Pap, you don’t need to be embarrassed about it,” Sans says, noticing his brother’s blush.

“Brother, can I…get ready for bed?” His shoe traces an erratic pattern in the carpet.

Sans blinks, bemused. “Well, sure. But it’s pretty early yet.”

“The faster I go to sleep, the faster Santa will arrive!”

“Fair enough,” Sans chuckles. “Say goodbye to the doc, first.”

Papyrus gives Gaster a quick, blink-and-you’d-miss-it hug.

“Goodbye, doctor. Thank you for the bed.”

“Of course.”

“Goodnight, brother!”

Papyrus doesn’t wait for Sans’ reply, darting off into the bathroom, to presumably perform his nightly rituals before heading off to sleep.

“Guess it’s just you an’ me, now.” Says Sans. “Want another drink?”

“If you’re having one.”

Sans retreats to the kitchen to fetch their glasses. Gaster hears running water stop, and then the sounds of doors opening and closing; Papyrus has successfully retreated to his room.

Sans returns, two glasses and the wine bottle in hand. He sets the bottle down on the coffee table, pouring them both a drink. He hands Gaster his filled wine glass before sitting down heavily on the couch beside him. Some of his wine sloshes over the brim, flecks getting onto his sweater. It’ll set and stain for sure, but it’s not like Sans cares.

“Thanks again for the bed, doc. He _loves_ cars; you really made Papyrus’ Gyftmas with that present.”

“As I’ve said, it’s no problem at all. Your brother was a delight to teach, and effort deserves to be rewarded.” Sans’ glass is already half empty; Gaster tops him off. “And you, Sans. I’d like to thank you for keeping a level head in dealing with the guard investigation. It’s rather regrettable that your first year with us has been so unusually stressful.”

“This has definitely been a shitty way to end the year.” Sans gulps down a few mouthfuls of wine, then rotates the glass in his hand, watching the red liquid slosh around. “I hope they catch the bastard who did it soon.”

“As do we all.”

“Anton never told you anything?” Sans presses. “You never read anything in his file about the, uh, gambling?”

“Anton was hired on years ago. If there had been anything to suggest an illicit past, it wasn’t big enough to linger in my mind.”

“I hope that’s all it is.” Sans mutters. “Old gambling debts. I thought maybe someone was picking off scientists or something.”

“Don’t let your imagination run away from you.”

“Is that shitty of me, to be feeling relieved right now?”

Sans’ glass is empty. Gaster plucks it from his hand, refilling it, and presses it back into his hand.

“You’re concerned about the safety of you and your brother. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Yer right, as always.” Sans slurs. His face is flushed with alcohol. How many drinks has he had tonight? Several over the course of dinner, several more now. His petite frame is no match for the quantity of alcohol that he’s consuming.

 “Oh shit,” Sans stands, swaying. He grabs onto the couch to steady himself. “Gotta get the presents, put ‘em out.”

“I’ll help you.” Gaster grabs Sans by the crook of his arm, helping keep him upright. “Where have you stored them?”

“My room. Closet.”

Sans wobbles into his bedroom, with Gaster’s assistance. It’s the utter opposite of Papyrus’ room. He can barely see the floor, covered as it is with crumpled papers, food wrappers, and stray articles of clothing.

Gaster makes sure Sans has a firm grip on the frame of his bed before he lets go; Sans sways but remains upright.

Gaster opens the closet. The small thing is stuffed to the brim with presents, all hand wrapped neatly, lovingly. Papyrus would never guess Sans bought them for him simply because of how carefully they’ve been wrapped.

Gaster forms his caging magic around the presents, and lifts the whole load of presents up off the ground.

“I could’a got em,” Sans protests.

“Just let me take care of it, Sans.”

Keeping a secure grip on his employee, he brings him back out into the living room, the presents trailing behind.

Sans insists on being the one to lay the presents beneath the tree, so Gaster watches with mild amusement as he drunkenly arranges them.

“There!”

Sans plants his hands on his hips, surveying his handiwork. Some of the presents are haphazardly arranged, stacked precariously on top of each other, just short of falling. Sans nods approvingly.

“I should quit my job, become a, a box stacker.” Sans grins up at him. “Hear that, doc? Box stacker.”

“That’s very nice, Sans.”

His work concluded, Sans collapses back onto the couch.

“’m a bad host. ‘is not my fault.” Sans struggles valiantly to keep his eyes open, but the alcohol is running thick in his magic now, making him rather drowsy. “No one taught me this shit, yaknow?”

“I’ll see myself out,” Gaster promises, right before Sans’ eye sockets slip closed.

Gaster waits, watching keenly. In the space of ten minutes, Sans’ breathing evens out, as he falls deeper into sleep. When he starts to snore, Gaster gets up quietly, his shoes whispering across the carpeted floor. He walks as silently as possible to Papyrus’ door, opening it just wide enough to slip inside before he shuts it again, sliding the lock in place.

The room is illuminated by the faint glow of a nightlight. Papyrus is curled on the bed overtop of the covers, in a loose t-shirt and old gym shorts.

Gaster moves over to the bed, pressing his hand to Papyrus’ mouth. Papyrus’ eye sockets fly open, and his instinctual scream of surprise is muffled in Gaster’s hand.

“Keep quiet,” Gaster warns, before his hand drops away.

“Not here,” Papyrus whimpers.

“Sans won’t hear a thing as long as you keep your mouth shut.” Gaster works Papyrus’ nightshirt up. The boy’s soul is already glowing with anticipation. “Remember what’s at stake here, Papyrus.”

Gaster tugs off his shorts. Papyrus parts his legs willingly.

“Give me your soul.”

With trembling hands, Papyrus draws his soul out into the open. He cradles it in his hands, before raising it up to offer it out to him. Gaster takes the soul, feels the flashes of fear and need clash and feed into each other.

Gaster brings forth his own soul, the violet construct dwarfing Papyrus’ in size.

Carefully, Gaster brings the souls together. The film of fluids coating their souls mingles together, overflowing and drizzling down onto the bed, spattering Papyrus’ bared spine. Gaster concentrates, exerting his soul’s energy over Papyrus’, leading the boy to form what he desires. Papyrus has no standard or comprehension of this, so it is up to Gaster to instruct him.

Papyrus’ hips jolt, and he barely stifles his cry as a mound of magic forms at his pelvis.

“What…I don’t…”

Gaster inspects the newly-formed pussy, prodding at the folds. His fingers come away slick.

“It’s perfect.” Gaster’s hands fumble on his belt buckle, clumsy in his excitement.

Gaster exposes his erection to the air. He drags Papyrus up into a sitting position, placing the boy’s hands on his length. Papyrus obeys the unspoken demand, hands squeezing and stroking.

As Papyrus works up his shaft, Gaster raises the boy’s soul to his mouth, tongue lapping at its warm surface.

Papyrus lets slip a few quiet, breathy moans, his bones flushing with arousal.

Once Papyrus has gotten him stiff and hard, Gaster pushes him down onto the bed again. His pussy is wet and dripping, begging for attention. Gaster returns the boy’s soul to his chest, and presses the tip of his shaft to Papyrus’ folds.

He pushes inside. Papyrus yelps—he wasn’t prepared, both figuratively and literally.

With a growl, Gaster claps a hand back over Papyrus’ mouth to muffle any further noise.

Gaster’s erection barely fits inside him, squeezing into Papyrus’ pelvic inlet. Gaster plunges inside, seating himself fully.

Papyrus gasps beneath his hand. Gaster has pushed Papyrus’ magic to its limit, stretching it to the top of his pelvis, almost brushing the bottom of his spine.

Gaster savors the moment. This is the first time he has entered Papyrus, filled him in such a manner. God, it’s more amazing than he’d ever dreamed. Papyrus’ walls grip him tightly, and the bones of his pelvis have stretched to accommodate him.

Gaster starts to move. He tries to go slow, ease Papyrus into it, but the feel of his warm, tight entrance, the smacking sound of flesh to bone—it frays his control rather quickly.

He thrusts deep inside Papyrus at an increasing rhythm. Drool from Papyrus’ mouth pools against the palm he still has pressed to his mouth. Gaster watches Papyrus’ expression, as the rolling waves of pleasure start to override the initial stabs of pain. Papyrus’ hands come up to grip Gaster’s shoulder blades, blunt nails digging in. He bucks against Gaster, no longer passive in the consummation, but an eager participant.

Gaster clutches Papyrus close as he climaxes. Papyrus ruts against him frantically, and his soul explodes inside his chest, magic coating the insides of his ribs.

Gaster pulls out of him. With two fingers, he spreads Papyrus’ pussy open, letting his seed trickle out.

Papyrus grasps at Gaster’s sweater, pulling his face up to meet his own. He presses his tongue to Gaster’s mouth, needy whimpers escaping his mouth. Gaster parts his mouth, allowing him entrance, and they kiss.

“Doctor Gaster,” Papyrus gasps out, hands curling tightly in Gaster’s sweater. “Doctor, I…I…”

“Tell me what you need, my dear Papyrus.”

“I…I need you.” Papyrus presses skeletal kisses to Gaster’s face, punctuating each repetition of the mantra. “I need you, I need you, I need you.”

Gaster kisses away the tears that spill from Papyrus’ eye sockets, gazing fondly down at him. This is how Papyrus should always be, pliant and perfect, his obedient toy. His ivory doll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me tooth and nail, but it's finally done. I'm excited for the following chapter--we're shifting from Gaster's perspective to Sans'. Shit's gonna go down in the Underground.
> 
> Check out my update schedule on [tumblr](http://themanicmagician.tumblr.com/).


	5. Blasters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title for this chapter: Sherlock Bones. This chapter is all about bringing together seemingly insignificant details, so it might be worth your time to reread the previous chapters as a refresher before diving into this one. Sorry for the wait--the final chapter should be out in a much shorter time span.
> 
> Check out my update schedule on [tumblr](http://themanicmagician.tumblr.com/).

Sans groans as the buzzing of his cell phone on the bedside table jerks him from his dreams and back to reality. He fumbles to grab it, yank it from its charger. Bleary-eyed, he stares at the caller ID: New Home Middle School. Why is Papyrus’ school calling him on his brother’s holiday break?

He picks up the call.

“Hello?” He clears his throat, his voice still rough with sleep.

“Am I speaking to Mr. Sans Serif, guardian of Papyrus Serif?”

“Uh yeah, that’s me.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you since the day after Gyftmas, Mr. Serif,” The woman scolds him, professionalism slipping for a moment.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you called.” After the incident with Anton was discovered, he was bombarded with calls from virtually every monster magazine, news show, and undernet board. He got tired of it, so switched his phone off whenever Papyrus was home.

“Well—regardless, the reason I’m calling is to go over Papyrus’ schedule alterations.”

“What schedule alterations?”

“He needs to retake monster languages 1, which conflicts with his art class—”

“Wait.” Sans sits up in bed. Sheets pool at his legs. “Why does he need to retake it?”

“…A failing grade usually constitutes a retake.”

What?

“You, uh, sound surprised I didn’t know he was failing.”

“Mr. Serif, you signed off on all his tests.” Her voice is colored with confusion.

“Listen lady, I didn’t sign nothing.” Setting the phone on speaker, he scrambles out of bed. He locates his slippers amidst his trash-strewn room, and crams his feet into them. He throws on his jacket, grabs his wallet. “You’re at the school now, right?”

“Yes, why—”

“I’ll be over soon.” He ends the call; he always loses the signal when he teleports.

Entering the living room, he glances around. Despite the early hour, Papyrus hasn’t emerged yet from his room. Locating a spare pen and paper, he leaves a note for his brother: went out, stay in till i get back. Normally he’d doodle a goofy picture or two to enhance the note, but he’s in a rush. And for once, Papyrus might actually be in trouble.

He steps through one of his shortcuts and up to the front double doors of the school. Once inside the management office, a secretary directs him to the guidance coordinator’s office.

She turns out to be a slender, tall reptilian monster. The spots of color on her scales call to mind those of an aboveground poisonous salamander. Most of her bright color is hidden beneath a crisp blue suit. The nametag on her desk reads Suzanne Salafritz.

At the sight of him she stands, shaking his hand across the length of her desk.

“Mr. Serif! You’re here earlier than I expected.”

“Took a shortcut.” Sans takes the seat across from her as she settles back in her own chair.

“Yes, well…here are the tests in question.” Salafritz pushes a small stack of papers over to him.

He picks the first one up, looking it over. He recognizes Papyrus’ handwriting in the scrawled answers. The sheet is marked up, more red pen on the page than graphite. At the top is the abysmal letter grade, as well as a line for Sans’ signature. And as for the signature itself…

It’s dead on.

He hadn’t wanted to believe that Papyrus would go so far as to forge his signature, but no one else is around him often enough to know it, no one else has a motive. That…hurts. He never thought Papyrus would lie to him.

“I didn’t sign any of these.” He says. “Papyrus must have done it.”

“It is unfortunate you were not alerted to his failing grade with the appropriate amount of time to correct it, but the fact of the matter is he still did fail.”

Salafritz shows him Papyrus’ schedule for the second half of the year. One of her claws points towards her notes, written in the margins with a neat hand.

“Monster Languages 1 is only taught in the 1 p.m. timeslot. So if we drop the art class, that goes in there. And that means Papyrus needs a new elective in the 10:30 timeslot.”

“But if you do this, Papyrus won’t be with his same friend group in monster languages or art.” And it was so hard for Papyrus to make friends in the first place.

To her credit, Salafritz does look like she somewhat regrets what she’s doing. “I know grade school is a challenging time for every monster, but I can assure you that Papyrus will adapt and make new friends.”

But Sans isn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet.

“There’s five tests here.” He gestures to the pile in front of him. “What about the others?”

“One moment.” Salafritz roots around her filing cabinet for a minute, and brings out a yellow folder that she passes over to Sans.

He looks through the pile. Early in September, Papyrus was clearly struggling, yes, but not outright failing. Then there’s a noticeable uptick in the grade towards the end of the month, through most of October. This was when Papyrus first started his tutoring sessions with Dr. Gaster. Sans hadn’t pulled him from tutoring until the end of November, so why was Papyrus’ grade slipping so terribly beforehand?

“You know about the media storm that’s been surrounding Anton’s death, don’t you?”

Salafritz nods. “Hard to avoid.”

“Well on account of me being his brother, Papyrus has been kinda sucked up into it. Now I can’t say for sure—I haven’t talked to him yet—but isn’t it possible his grades dropped because of the stress of all that?”

“His grades across the board did drop, but none so significantly as monster languages.”

“That was the hardest class for him.” Sans looks up from the tests, meeting Salafritz’s sallow eyes. “Listen, can’t we work something out for him?”

Whatever she sees in his expression is enough for her to concede.

“…I can arrange for him to take a proficiency exam.”

Sans lets out a gust of breath.

“Thank you.”

“It won’t be easy.” She warns. “It’ll be an exam on the entire Monster Languages 1 block. He has to get a C at minimum to pass.”

“He’ll do it.”

Salafritz writes a time and date a little more than a week off on a sticky note, and gives it to him. Sans stuffs it away in his jacket pocket.

“Bring Papyrus to the school at that time, and we’ll have him take the exam.”

“Thanks.” He winks. “Try not to grade him on too harsh a _scale_.”

Salafritz just gives him an uncomfortable, polite smile. Ah well. They can’t all be winners.

Sans waves goodbye to the secretary on the way out. Once outside, his breath mists out in front of him. It’s snowing again. Flakes gather in the hood of his jacket.

He turns a corner away from the school and is back inside the apartment.

Papyrus is up and awake now, making breakfast for two. He’s brought out the electric griddle, and watches pancakes sizzle on its surface. He nudges the side of one with a spatula.

“Pap.”

Papyrus jolts, dropping his spatula. He snatches it off the floor quickly, and deposits it in the sink. When he turns to face Sans, he puts on a beaming smile. Now that Sans knows there’s something wrong, it’s suddenly so obvious. Papyrus’ grin is too exuberant to be genuine, and there’s an air of exhaustion around him.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that, brother.”

“Papyrus. Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Yes! Sneaking up on someone is very rude!”

“Papyrus.”

It dawns on his brother that Sans is being serious.

Papyrus hesitates. The pancakes sizzle quietly.

“….No.”

He busies himself with getting another spatula out of the utensil holder. Keeping his back to Sans. He flips the pancakes over. The tops are browned, nearly blackened.

“Papyrus, I know.”

Papyrus stiffens. Sans can see his shoulder blades bunching up beneath the fabric of his shirt.

Sans walks over to him. He turns off the griddle before the food burns.

Papyrus’ shoulders quake with the force of his hiccuping sobs. Sans’ stern demeanor cracks in a second.

“Aw, Paps, don’t cry.” Sans pats his back.

“I-I didn’t w-want—want to—” Papyrus starts to hyperventilate, unable to continue speaking.

“Hey, hey, calm down. Easy Paps, easy.” Sans wraps him in a tight hug, willing him to settle. He hadn’t predicted such an extreme reaction. “I talked it out with your guidance counselor, got it all straightened out. She’ll let you do a make-up exam so you don’t have to retake Monster Languages 1. You’ll still be with your friends and everything, so calm down, ok?”

Papyrus stills. After a moment, he looks up at Sans.

“R-Really?”

Why is he so stunned?

“Really really, Pap.”

Gradually, Papyrus’ shaking subsides.

Sans starts again, gentle. “You wanna tell me why you thought you had to forge my signature on those tests?”

Papyrus’ gaze drops away from him.

“I thought you’d be m-mad.”

“I’m not mad about the grade. I’m mad that you lied to me, and tried to hide it. But I am a little confused, buddy. Help me out here. The doc said you were doing well in your lessons.”

“I’m just—I’m stupid, I can’t do anything r-right.”

Another deluge of tears is on the horizon.

“We both know that’s not true.” Sans pats his skull soothingly. “So tell me what really happened, bro.”

Sans waits patiently for Papyrus to compose himself. Slowly, Papyrus explains.

“It was, um. A couple things.” Papyrus fidgets. His finger hooks between the fibers of his sweater. Wriggling wider holes. Sans should tell him to stop it, but whatever helps Papyrus through it.

“Sometimes Dr. Gaster would explain things, and I wouldn’t get it right away. And I didn’t want to ask him to keep going back.”

“Pap, he was there to help you.”

“I know. I guess I was being a numbskull, nyeh heh.”

Papyrus is so uncharacteristically sheepish, stumbling over words, speaking quietly. Sans barely hears his next admission.

“I didn’t want to make you look bad.”

“You could never do that. You’re the coolest, Pap, and I mean that.”

  Papyrus barely reacts to the praise. He looks off to the side, not meeting Sans’ eyes.

“And those—those people would watch me, Sans.” Papyrus says, voice hushed.

“The reporters?”

“They didn’t talk to me, like you said they wouldn’t, but they’d—they were right outside the front gate. They watched me through the classroom window.”

Sans should’ve done more, should’ve filed a complaint with the guard. Papyrus is too young to be going through something like this.

“I’m sorry, Pap. They shouldn’t be bothering you at all when class starts up again.”

“Did they catch who did it?”

“There’s some leads. Don’t worry your little noggin over it, bro.”

Sans and Papyrus finally break apart. Sans heats up a glass of milk, and guides Papyrus over to sit at the kitchen table. While Papyrus sips at his milk, Sans prepares another breakfast for them, since the pancakes Papyrus had made for them are both burnt and cold, now.

Before long Sans finishes the second batch of pancakes, and sets a plate before Papyrus, and one at his own place setting. Sans is about to refill Papyrus’ milk—normally he chugs the stuff down—but he’s only drank about an inch of the glass.

They eat in silence. Papyrus lacks the energy to talk, and Sans is wrapped up in his own thoughts. He chews mechanically until the plate is polished off, then waits for Papyrus to set his fork down again before he speaks up.

“Your guidance counselor said you could take a big exam at the end of the week. So no more playing outside with your friends until this is over, alright?”

“Okay.” Papyrus agrees glumly. This is enough of a punishment, right?

“Do you want me to call Dr. Gaster over here?”

“No!” Sans is surprised at his vehemence. Papyrus lowers his volume. “No, it’s fine. I don’t want to bother him. I can handle it.”

“Ok then.” Sans collects their plates. “Why don’t you get started now? If you make some flashcards or somethin’, I’ll go over them with you.”

Papyrus nods, and slips from the room.

Sans starts doing the dishes. Normally he’d let them pile up in the sink to make a veritable dish mountain, but right now he needs something to keep his hands busy.

 Papyrus provided him a reasonable explanation for his deceit. That should be the end of it.

So why does something still feel off to him?

~*~

The magic construct gives a low, pleased rumble as Sans joins it in the testing room.

It bobs over to his side, dipping its muzzle towards him. Sans gives it a few scritches. The surface of the canine skull feels almost like bone—but something about the scrape of the texture feels vaguely synthetic.

Dr. Gaster’s voice comes through over the loudspeaker. “This is not a petting zoo.”

“Okay, sheesh.” Sans’ hand drops off. The cannon whines at the loss of contact. “Buddy. You in the mood to listen today, maybe?”

Sans gestures to the array of targets set up at the end of the room.

“You don’t feel the urge to lazer ‘em? Even just a little?”

Sans glances towards the observation room. His colleagues and Dr. Gaster are watching, waiting. They’re expecting him to pull a miracle out of his ass and make this thing work, but he honestly doesn’t know what else to do. No matter what they try, the magic constructs remain serene. The deadline set by King Asgore is fast approaching, and they’ve got nothing to show for it.

Sans rubs at his eye sockets tiredly. After dinner every night, Sans much preferred to doze in front of the television while Papyrus played. But the past several days, he’s stayed up well into the night running through vocabulary flashcards and terms with his brother, leaving him exhausted each morning. It’s a small miracle he’s still awake now.

Papyrus is devoting 120% of his energy to studying for this exam. He doesn’t want to be held back, of course, but Sans also believes part of his enthusiasm is an apology to Sans for his behavior. And deep down inside himself, Sans can’t deny that yeah. It still smarts. Of all his fuckups in life, he hadn’t counted among them how he raised Papyrus. But this wasn’t just one test, or two. Not a small misstep. This was _months_ of lying to Sans’ face.

Sans should’ve noticed sooner. Would have noticed if he could get his act together, stay awake enough at night to spend more time with Papyrus, he could’ve caught onto the signs if he had only been better—

He is jarred from his thoughts by a high-pitched whine. The cannon is charging a blast. Its jaw unhinges, and the magic dissolves the target entirely.

“Sans, what did you do?” Gaster asks. Sans can hear the excited chatter of Em and Saul in the background.

“I—I don’t know.” He hasn’t done much different than any of the other tries. He decides it would not be in his best interest to admit to his boss that he wasn’t even thinking about work.

“Well whatever it is you did, do it again.”

The doctor’s demand is easier said than done. He prods and pleads, even tries thinking about something else entirely, but that one blast of magic was a fluke. After another half hour of unsuccessful attempts, they break for lunch.

While Sans goes off with Saul and Em to the lounge for lunch, Dr. Gaster doesn’t join them. He used to deign to grace them with his oh-so mighty presence at meals, but ever since the king imposed a looming deadline, he has grown terse and irritable, and sequesters himself out of everybody’s best interest.

Sans slides into a chair and pulls out the bagged lunch Papyrus prepared for him this morning. He looks down glumly at the carton of milk, the crabapple, and Papyrus’ latest attempt at getting him healthy. The main course is a tomato and lettuce leaf sandwich…wrapped inside two more lettuce leaves.

He can’t help but stare enviously over at Em’s plate. She’d nabbed a chicken sandwich and fries from the staff cafeteria.

He picks up the lettuce sandwich, squaring his shoulders.

“Well,” He starts, like a monster at his last meal. “ _Lettuce_ begin.”

He take a bite. It’s crisp. Crunchy. The small burst of flavor from the tomato is not enough to offset the abundant and bland taste of lettuce. He chews miserably.

“How is it?” Saul asks. He’s heating leftovers in the microwave, but is watching the pair of them.

“I think I regained another year of my life back already.” Sans picks out a shred of lettuce that got wedged between two teeth. “It’s terrible.”

Em takes pity on him, and nudges her basket of fries over to him. He shoots her a grateful look before he shovels a handful inside his mouth. The salty, greasy goodness is divine.

“You shouldn’t enable him.” Saul grumbles as he comes over to join them with his heated meal.

“He’s young yet.” Says Em. “He still has time to curb bad habits.”

Sans almost wishes he were as optimistic about his future health as Em is. Almost.

“Oh! I didn’t get to show you this this morning.” Saul rummages through his backpack, and plops a newspaper on the table. Anton’s picture is on the cover, along with some other skeevy-looking cat monsters Sans doesn’t recognize. Sans’ appetite ebbs. He pushes the remaining fries back to Em, and wipes his greasy fingers off on his jacket.

Saul points to the various pictures, talking excitedly: “The paper says Captain Mira has rounded up the whole gambling ring for questioning. She’ll get them to crack for sure!”

 “I’m glad our friend will get the justice he deserves,” Comments Em.

All three of them look up as Dr. Gaster appears in the doorway. There’s a black look on his face, but Saul blithely ignores his mood as he picks up the paper to show him, too.

“Dr. Gaster! There’s good news. Captain Mira has—”

“If you have time to talk about this, you should be working.” Gaster snaps.

 “But Anton’s case—”

“To hell with that. All you three need to focus on right now is Project BOMB.” Dr. Gaster’s glare flicks to him. “Sans, hurry up.”

“Right behind you,” Sans calls after the doctor’s retreating back.

Saul looks hurt. That had been callous, even for the doc.

Sans dumps the remains of his lunch into the trash.

“Don’t take his words to heart,” Em says. She’s known him the longest out of their group, which gives her some measure of claim to his character. “He’s just under a lot of pressure right now.”

And they aren’t? Sans barely suppresses the urge to scoff. He follows after Dr. Gaster before he can get snippy with him, too.

~*~

The following Saturday, Sans walks Papyrus to school for his exam. His little bro is nervous, but determined. He sharpened a whole pack of pencils for the exam—just in case. He brought them along in a cute little pencil case.

Sans gives Papyrus a small pep talk on the way over, in an attempt to lower his brother’s stress level. He also surreptitiously keeps an eye out for any press on their tail, but it seems the fervor of the murder case has finally died down.

Sans scowls. Despite Captain Mira’s best efforts, a definitive culprit still hasn’t been found. What the hell is taking them so long?

Sans waves Papyrus off at the school gates, and waits until he sees Papyrus goes inside to leave. He’s got roughly an hour and a half before he has to swing back by and pick him up again.

He returns to their apartment. He walks down the hallway, past his own room. Hesitating before Papyrus’ door. Guilt squirms inside him—he really shouldn’t do this—but he squashes it. Something about this whole situation just doesn’t sit right with him. He raised Papyrus since he was a babybones. He knows how Papyrus acts normally, and when something is wrong. Papyrus has been acting just slightly off for weeks—maybe even longer, and Sans hadn’t noticed it. It’s not just the lie about his grades. That wouldn’t have caused the meltdown he saw, wouldn’t keep him exhausted and on-edge. Papyrus has proved he can lie to him. What else is he keeping a secret from him?

Sans steps inside his brother’s room. As per usual, everything is neat. The bookshelf is organized by subject and then alphabetized. Knick-knacks are arranged meticulously to give a guest their full affect, like pieces in an art gallery. The bed is neatly made up, and not a stray article of clothing is in sight, everything dutifully put away in the closet.

Feeling particularly grimy, Sans searches the room. The race-car bed has no space beneath its plastic frame, but it does have a small pull-out drawer for storage. Puzzles and board games are stacked inside. Sans checks the closet next, but the only skeleton inside it is him: the tiny area is crammed full of clothes. Once it was a sizable space for the threadbare hand-me-downs and thrift store outfits, but Dr. Gaster’s splurges have filled it up fast. Soft cashmere, thick wool, fine spider silk. The doctor has lavished gifts upon Papyrus that Sans will never be able to pay back; the wealth of his paychecks go to paying off old credit card bills, while the rest goes to rent, food, and school supplies for Papyrus.

Sans’ gaze lands on his brother’s desk. Vocabulary flashcards are set out in a neat pile, while any other stray papers have been put away in one of the three drawers attached to the desk. Sans opens the first one, and pulls out Papyrus’ sketchbook. He flips through it. There’s nothing unusual in the sketches themselves, but. Several sheets are missing. The book is thinner than it should be, and there are bits of paper trapped in the rings. He knows for a fact that Papyrus likes to keep all the pages of a sketchbook together, so he can track his progress. When he’s filled out an entire sketchbook, he goes through each page with Sans, proudly explaining each and every picture. This is such a minor thing, but a peculiar unease still sits heavy in his gut. He keeps looking.

The second drawer gives him nothing, full of random craft supplies. The third seemingly has nothing of value either, however: Sans can tell that the volume of the drawer is shallower than it should be. He sets aside the old notebooks that were resting inside, giving him an unimpeded view of the bottom. The wood grain of the bottom is a touch lighter than the rest of the sides. Sans almost chuckles; trust his brother to construct his own false bottom for the drawer.

Sans’ phalanges skim the inside of the drawer, until his thumb catches on the release. He presses it, and the false bottom pops up. He lifts it to look at what Papyrus has stored away. There are some small sentimental trinkets; old valentines cards, photos of Sans and their long-deceased parents.

He pulls out a stack of sketchbook paper—these must be the missing pages—and he goes through them one by one. The first few are of Dr. Gaster, placed in various poses. In each picture, his face has been scribbled over in thick graphite.

Sans keeps going. There’s one of the magic construct that attacked Papyrus, but then….self-portraits. The word “dirty” written and crossed out over and over again in the margins. Sketches of Papyrus crying. Screaming. And a final depiction of Gaster; his features horrifically gnarled and distorted. Something intimidating, terrifying.

Numb, he reaches for the last thing in the drawer, a wad of papers wedged in the back. He unfurls them. This looping penmanship is not Papyrus’ chicken scratch. Anton wrote these. Notes on the cannons—blasters, he refers to them as—notes on how to finally weaponized them. Notes Papyrus should under no circumstances have tucked inside his desk drawer, unless—

Unless.

~*~

“Sans! I did it!” Papyrus runs out to greet him at the school gates, buzzing with excitement. “Ms. Salafritz ran it through the scantron machine and I did it! I—”

Sans grabs his brother’s arm and tugs him through a rift back to their apartment.

Papyrus scowls, rubbing at his temple. “Brother, you _know_ I hate it when you do that.”

“Take a seat.”

Papyrus flinches at his tone, shoots him a bewildered look. But without complaint he takes his usual seat at the kitchen table. Sans pulls out the sheaf of papers he kept in his jacket, and throws them out on the table. Papyrus’ drawings. Anton’s notes. The damning evidence.

Papyrus’ face drains of any color.

“You lied to me.”

“T-That’s not mine.”

“I found it in your room, Papyrus.” Sans sucks in a sharp breath. He swore he’d keep calm for this, but already his temper is fraying. “Do you have any idea how serious this is? You not only lied to me, you lied to the guard.”

“No!” Papyrus shakes his head. “No, I didn’t! I don’t know what those are, they’re not mine.”

“You know what happened to Anton!” Sans yells. “You were there, you saw it. You saw Gaster kill him!”

“ _No_!” Papyrus jumps to his feet, the chair clattering behind him. His hands clutch at his skull. “No, no, no, no.”

“This ends right here, Papyrus. Right now. Sit back down and tell me the truth. Right. Now.”

Papyrus whimpers, and flees the room.

Sans—struck with surprise by his reaction—doesn’t follow after until Papyrus is halfway down the hallway already.

Sans follows after him, volume climbing: “Papyrus Serif, get back here.”

Papyrus slams the door in his face. Incensed, he shortcuts inside. Papyrus is crawling into his bed, burrowing under the blankets. Trying to shut him out.

Sans grabs fistfuls of the sheets and yanks them from his brother’s grip, tossing them off the side of the bed.

“Papyrus, knock it off.”

 Papyrus is mumbling, writhing on the bed. One hand is clawing at his chest. What the hell—

“Papyrus, _stop_ that.” But he won’t, he’s trying to tear at himself like an animal.

Sans climbs onto the bed. Papyrus’ flailing leg catches him in the chest.

“Christ, Pap, stop it.”

Sans has to wrestle him into submission, grabbing his wrists and pinning his hands down so he stops scratching.

“N-No, not here, don’t…” Papyrus’ voice is suddenly different. Quiet, defeated. His breath shallows. There are tear tracks running down his face. Despite his protests, he is suddenly limp under Sans. Baring his neck.

Sans has to check if he left any lingering marks, scratching at himself like that. Normally it wouldn’t do much damage, but he has the feeling Papyrus’ intent to harm was strong.

Sans tugs up his shirt, healing magic already sparking to life on his palm. Sure enough, there are a few scratches on his sternum. Sans presses his hand to his brother’s chest—and Papyrus _moans_.

His hips buck up, brushing against Sans. He feels warm and damp through his shorts. What the fuck. What the _fuck_.

Papyrus’ soul floats up through his ribcage, fitting itself into Sans’ hand. Sans can feel its gummy, slippery texture. Papyrus is broadcasting supplication. Want. Need. Lust.

Sans springs back off the bed. He’d thought Gaster had made Papyrus lie about Anton’s murder—not that he’d trained him to respond to contact, not that he’d _touched him_.

 Sans doubles over, vomiting the remains of his lunch onto the carpet.

The picture is now painfully clear.

Gaster has sexually molested his little brother.

Sans wipes strands of magic residue from his mouth. Papyrus stumbles over to clutch at his sleeve, his eyes wide.

“Don’t—Don’t tell, it’s okay—”

“I’m going to kill him.”

Papyrus whines like a kicked dog. “Please, please don’t tell, I’ll be good, please, _please_.”

“Papyrus.” Sans pries his brother’s fingers off his jacket. “Do not leave this room until I get back. Is that understood?”

“Please don’t—”

“Is. That. Understood?”

Papyrus sniffles. He nods.

In front of Papyrus’ door, he raises an impenetrable wall of bone attacks.

With one last warning look at Papyrus, he shortcuts to the front door of the apartment. He sets up another barricade.

His soul is caught in a vice. He can’t breathe. He’s literally shaking with anger. He was so stupid. So _fucking_ stupid.

Sans shortcuts to the front doors of the Lab. He fumbles his keycard out of his wallet, unlocks the door, and slips inside. There’s no staff here on weekends, not even a cleaning crew; he won’t be disturbed.

He takes the elevator down to the lower levels. Lights flicker on as he marches through the halls, towards the far wing where the blasters rest.

Anton’s notes had cracked the code. It’s all so simple, in retrospect. The blasters are tied to him. It was never about agitating them to attack—it was all about how he felt. And right now he feels furious enough to dust Gaster ten times over.

The blasters are all suspended in their vats. Their eyes flicker to life at his entrance, watch him keenly as he types commands into the computer. The vats drain of fluid, and the casings lower to release the blasters.

There are fifteen functioning blasters in total. They were built to destroy the barrier; they will help him kill one monster. He will make them.

The blasters crowd around him, recognizing him instantly. A thin bird skull crows at him, picking up on his barely-contained distress.

“I need your help.”

The canine skull is closest. He reaches out to touch its snout. His soul manifests in front of his chest, open and willing to accept energy from the magical constructs.

Sans’ fingers graze the blaster and his world whites out.

~*~

His phone is ringing, buzzing insistently in his pocket.

Sans blinks. Black spots speckle the corners of his vision. He sits up, and has to lay back down again as his head swims. He feels saturated with magic energy, down to his marrow. The blasters have all vanished from the room, but he can feel them residing within the overflowing well of his own magic.

The phone is still ringing. With shaking hands, Sans fishes the cell phone from his pocket.

It’s Gaster.

He accepts the call.

“Sans.” His rage boils at how calm the doctor sounds. “I wish to talk. Meet me at the Core. Room LL3.”

He doesn’t wait for a verbal acknowledgement. There’s a click as Gaster hangs up.

Gaster knows. Somehow, he knows Sans has learned of what he’s done.

There are no cameras in the Core. There’s an issue with feedback on the upper levels, and further down, the plastic melts by the heat of the magma. There is no phone reception either. Core cooling procedures are all automated; no one will be there.

No recordings, no way to call for help, and no potential witnesses. It’s a trap, that much is plain. If Gaster wants to get rid of him, that’s one of the best places to do it. But what is he supposed to do? Let the guard handle it, give Gaster time to slip away, or time to craft sweet lies for the king’s ear? No. Sans has the upper hand. He needs to strike _now_.

He hasn’t been out to the Core in some time, since when he was first hired and given a tour of both it and the Lab. It takes a moment for him to locate the old shortcut, and then he’s walking up the ramp to enter the power plant.

Sans takes the central elevator down to LL3. Normally, even he’d need clearance to get down this far; Gaster must have disabled it to grant him access. How generous of him.

The elevator comes to a shuddering stop, and the grated doors open with a squeal.

Sans heads down the hallway. The heat suffusing the room grows stronger with each step.

He reaches an atrium. Magma bubbles twenty feet below. There are several parapets that all lead to a common center platform, which itself is about a fifteen foot circumference. In the center of the platform is a temperature regulation hub.

“Sans.”

Gaster steps out from behind the regulation system to greet him.

“I see you got my message.”

Sans raises his hand. The canine blaster snaps into existence, magic gathering in its maw.

Gaster is unperturbed.

“I wouldn’t fire that here if I were you.” Gaster pats the hull of the regulator behind him. “Or do you want the Core to destabilize?”

There are several temperature regulators throughout the site. But the Core, with its temperamental meld of magic and magma, is not something to take risks with. Sans kills the beam the blaster was building. The blaster stares Gaster down, growling lowly.

“Did you just call me here to kill me? Or what, are you going to try to justify yourself?” Sans spits.

“Sans, please. My only regret is that you felt the need to go snooping around. I do so hate to lose a brilliant mind. Now I’ll have to find replacements for both Anton and you.”

Sans’ teeth grind.

“Papyrus is a _child_.”

“Yes, and quite a talented one at that.” Sans wants to be sick again at the delighted purr in Gaster’s voice. Gaster steps closer, onto the bridge. “Do you want to know how it felt? How he tasted—”

A second blaster bursts alive beneath Gaster’s feet. The high-powered laser of magic punches up through the walkway. Gaster stumbles back, the beam just grazing him. The magic pierces through the ceiling, causing debris to drop down to be swallowed up by the magma.

Sans is through talking. He gets a running start and clears the gap.

He barely has his feet planted on the other side when Gaster surges towards him, intent on shoving him off. Sans barrels into him, sending them both sprawling onto the platform.

Sans picks himself up and gains some distance; while it’ll take multiple hits for him to whittle down Gaster’s HP, Sans only needs to be hit by one direct blow.

There’s a crackle of magical energy above, and Sans scrambles to avoid an avalanche of icicles. Gaster flicks his hand, and spears of ice hurtle straight for Sans. A blaster manifests in front of him, and its jaws snap shut around the ice. A final spear of ice pierces up from the ground, and it stabs through the blaster’s closed jaws. The bone cracks, splits, and the blaster dissolves in a shimmer of spent magic.

Gaster laughs. “It seems they have adopted your weak health, Sans. A pity.”

“I have more than enough of ‘em left to finish you off.”

“You won’t win, not an inexperienced, low HP monster like you. Spare us both the trouble and stop _squirming_.”

Sans evades another wave of attacks. Gaster underestimates him. That’ll be his downfall.

A ring of blasters materialize around Gaster, firing simultaneously. Gaster erects a shell of ice around himself. It shields him from most of the damage, but when the blaster beams die down, Gaster is wheezing, clutching his side.

Sweat drips down Sans’ skull, at not just from the heat of the magma. He’s never had to expend so much magic before. It’s not every day you’re fighting for your life.

Another blaster prepares to fire, and Gaster raises up a massive hand of ice. Its fingers hook in the blaster’s mouth, diverting its aim. The beam of energy goes wild as the blaster thrashes, cutting lines in the wall, the ceiling—and then it hits the temperature regulator.

An emergency alarm shrieks to life. They have ten, maybe fifteen minutes before first response engineering staff make their way here.

Beneath the platform they’re on, the Core shudders dangerously. Magma sloshes up against the pillar supporting the platform they’re both standing on. The connecting bridges sway and creak.

Gaster sends another burst of icicles his way before he flees down one of the parapets.

He won’t get away.

Sans rushes after him, the bridge swaying unsteadily beneath his feet. He’s almost across when he slips on a sudden patch of ice Gaster had left behind. Sans goes down hard, face first, no doubt bruising his chin.

Sans staggers to his feet again. The bridge dips, sways, and Sans is suddenly clutching the side railing for support. With another tremor from the Core, the parapet disconnects, dropping.

“No no no, _fuck_.”

Sans slides down towards the magma. He struggles to grip onto the now-vertical bridge. His fingers slip off the grating entirely, and—

The air is sucked from his chest as he lands on top of the still-summoned blaster, that swooped below to catch him. Sans nearly falls off it at first, so he clings tightly to the blaster, gripping the upper curve of its eye socket and _refusing_ to let go. His soul pounds like a hammer in his chest as the blaster glides upwards, away from the lake of churning magma that would’ve meant death.

The blaster brings him into the room he was trying to reach, before letting him slide off of it. Gaster is nowhere in sight, but there’s a trail of black ooze—blood? Sans follows it, and dissolves the blaster for the moment to conserve his energy.

Sans follows the trail through several rooms. He keeps his guard up, expecting an ambush at any moment, but Gaster is not lurking behind the automated machinery of the Core.

He ultimately finds Gaster in a dead-end room. It’s a waste disposal area: bags upon bags of trash wait to be dumped into the magma below. Gaster stands near the edge of the walkway, before the bubbling pit. He is crouched down, his back to the door.

Sans draws closer, cautious. A pair of blasters materialize, hanging behind Sans, ready to fight at a moment’s notice. One push of blue magic would send him hurtling over the edge; why would he deliberately put himself in such a dangerous position?

“Give up, Gaster. It’s over.”

“It is over.” Gaster agrees. “But not for me.”

Gaster straightens, and steps out of the way to reveal—

“ _Papyrus_?” Sans blurts at the sight of his brother. How did he get out of his room? “What are you _doing_ here?”

Gaster’s hand settles on Papyrus’ shoulder, pressing him close to his side. Papyrus leans against him, expression slack.

“He’s such a good little pet. So perfectly obedient.” Gaster’s hand slides up to caress Papyrus’ skull. He melts into the touch. “As soon as you learned the truth, he ran straight to my side.”

Sans tries to find a glimmer of his brother in that blank gaze.

“Papyrus, please.” Sans struggles to keep his voice level. He holds out his hand. “Papyrus, come over here. It’s me. It’s _Sans_.”

“You’re wasting your breath.” Gaster tuts. “Papyrus is mine now, down to his very soul. In my presence, he cannot help but obey.”

Gaster withdraws from his brother.

“Papyrus.” The small skeleton tilts his head to look up at Gaster. “If Sans attacks me, you are to throw yourself into the Core and end your life. Is that understood?”

Papyrus nods, and steps closer to the lip of the platform. He turns around, and the backs of his heels are off the edge.

“Papyrus—”

“I told you it’s useless, Sans.” Gaster advances. “Now, what is your decision. Will you try to kill me, fail, and end the life of your brother? Or will you see reason and give up?”

Sans’ gaze cuts back and forth between his brother, dangerously close to falling, and to Gaster who waits for his answer, a triumphant smile on his lips.

Sans lets out a deep breath. Slowly, he raises his arms in surrender. The blasters dissipate.

“As I thought. Do not fret, Sans. I will make this quick.” Gaster approaches with a dagger of ice magic in his hand. “And I will make sure Papyrus is well taken care of.”

With an animalistic cry, Sans charges at Gaster, tackling him to the floor. The dagger of ice goes spinning out of his hand. He flings out blue magic and—yes! It grips Papyrus’ soul right as he stepped back off the platform. His brother remains suspended in the air, unable to fall. Thank god. Thank _god_.

Papyrus shrieks, struggling to get free, his legs kicking in the air, but like hell Sans is letting go of him. He’ll die first.

Gaster seizes Sans’ distraction and grabs him by the jacket, flipping them over so Gaster is on top. He reels back and punches Sans across the face, whipping his head to the side. The second punch glances off his eye—there’s a sickening crack as the bone splits.

Sans’ head swims, but he has to focus. His hands come up to shield his face, and he kicks Gaster in the stomach, where he was injured earlier. Gaster buckles, and the fight is suddenly less one-sided.

There’s no finesse. They’ve both burned through much of their magic. They fight like animals, kicking and scratching. In a fight like this, it doesn’t matter how much stronger Gaster is normally. Sans’ intent to harm—his need to protect his brother—eclipses Gaster’s own will.

Sans kicks at Gaster, and for a brief moment he’s free of contact. He teleports five feet back, and staggers to his feet. Before Gaster can regain his bearings, Sans summons the canine blaster. Gaster screams as the high-powered beam rips through him. Sans pours everything he has into this last attack, until even Gaster’s cries of agony peter out.

The beam finally sputters and flickers out. What remains of Gaster is a smoking husk. Not dust yet. Still twitching. Alive.

Sans grabs the front of his shirt in one fist, and the other punches Gaster square across the face. Again. Again. Again. Gaster’s limp beneath him, HP plummeting by the moment. Black ichor drips from his knuckles as Sans punches him again. He won’t let up, not until the bleeding, battered face beneath him shifts to grainy dust.

Sans reels back for another punch when his wrist is gripped by a strong, gloved hand. He whips around, panting, blinking marrow out of his one eye socket.

It’s Captain Mira.

Without him noticing, the captain and a squad of guards entered the room. Snapdragon has grabbed his brother, cradling him close to his chest. Papyrus is howling for Gaster, scratching ineffectively at the royal guard’s scaly hide. It’s a relief to release the blue hold on his brother’s soul, easing the painful strain on his magic.

Sans turns back around to glare at Mira.

“Let me go.” He snarls.

“Any more and you’ll kill him. Whatever he has or hasn’t done, his punishment for that is not to be decided by a citizen.”

Sans tries to tear away from her grip, to finish the job, but his adrenaline is draining fast. Captain Mira hauls him up off of Gaster’s body. She squeezes a pair of handcuffs around his wrists.

Two guards come forward to deal with Gaster. One hauls him upright, while the other cinches cuffs on him as well. His black blood smears across the floor as he’s half-carried, half-dragged from the room.

Snapdragon approaches them with Papyrus, who still struggles against his captor.

“Get a medic to sedate him.” Captain Mira orders.

Sans stumbles when he tries to walk; the captain picks him up like he weighs nothing.

“God, what a fucking mess.” She mutters.


	6. Justice and Bravery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience while I worked through this chapter; the court scenes gave me quite a bit of trouble. Without further ado, enjoy!

Sans sits in the same interrogation room he’d been led to weeks ago, when Anton had gone missing. The butterfly tape stuck around his right eye socket itches, but the cuffs that lock his wrists together (and put a stopper on his magic) make it difficult to scratch.

He’d been locked in a cell at the royal guard headquarters for days. He couldn’t afford bail on his own, and refused to call anyone for aid. Not a week ago he would’ve defended Gaster, Saul, or Em from anyone. Now he doesn’t know who he can trust. Had his coworkers known what was going on all along? He would’ve been able to tell, right?

Then again, he should’ve been able to tell Gaster was a massive pile of shit, too. So maybe he’s not the best judge of character.

Captain Mira sits opposite of him. There are hints of a sleepless night—mussed hair, a disheveled uniform, circles under wild eyes—but in spite of it she seems _more_ energized, somehow.

Sans has recounted his side of the story; his personal investigation, and what it revealed. He watches Mira digest what he’s said, no doubt questioning the validity of his claims. She steps out for a moment, ostensibly to speak with Snapdragon or some other guard hiding behind the two-way glass.

“Well I have to say, Mr. Serif, you can spin quite the tale,” Mira says, as she rejoins him in the room. “Elaborate. Some might say far-fetched.” Her expression hardens. “Why should I believe you when the most likely explanation is two premeditated murders on your part, only this last didn’t end up quite like you’d planned?”

“You took my keys when you locked me up in here. Search my apartment. You’ll find the drawings.” Sans shrugs. “And gee, I don’t know. Maybe search the bastard’s home. There’s gotta be something there.”

“Being a sarcastic shitsack doesn’t endear you to me,” Mira warns.

“Sorry. Can you tell me where he is?”

“If by “he” you mean Gaster, he’s being treated for the injuries you gave him. Was near death’s door when they brought him in last night.”

“You should have let him die.”

Mira raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like there’s a lot of hate packed into that little body of yours.”

“You don’t think I’m justified?” Sans asks, acerbically.

“The Royal Scientist secretly being a pedophile is your story, not mine.”

Sans bristles. “Who wouldn’t do what I did? You have a daughter, don’t you? Isn’t she around Papyrus’ age? And you’re trying to tell me you wouldn’t stop at nothing to—”

“We’re not dealing with a what-if scenario, Mr. Serif.” She interrupts. “Regardless, supposing what you say is true, you should have come to us with your evidence.”

“I couldn’t wait.”

“And now you’re a suspect for one murder and two attempted murders.”

“Two?”

“Your brother was dangling above the Core’s magma by _your_ magic.”

Sans rises, agitated. “I was _saving_ him—”

“Sit down, Serif, before I make you.” Mira speaks over him.

Glaring, Sans sits again.

“Good.”

“Where is my brother now?” The last time he’d seen him, Papyrus was being carried out of the room in Snapdragon’s hold, screaming for Gaster.

“He’s safe. That’s all I’m telling you.”

“You have to take me to him. Please. I-I need to make sure he’s okay.”

Captain Mira places a hand over her soul. “On my honor, Papyrus is well taken care of. No one will bring him harm. But I can’t let you see him.”

“Papyrus has been through hell. He needs me.”

“You beat the shit out of a monster twice your size.” Mira points out. “Until the facts are clear, I’m not comfortable leaving you with a vulnerable child.”

“Just let me _see_ him, at least. Please. He’s my brother.”

But Mira shakes her head.

“It’s best to keep Papyrus isolated from both you and the doctor until the trial. We’ll be needing his testimony. Now, I think we’re done here.”

Mira rises, and grabs Sans by the arm. She leads him from the room. Snapdragon had indeed been watching on the other side of the glass. His cool gaze follows Sans as Captain Mira drags him out by the bullpen. Guards are puttering about, trying to look busy, but there’s no doubt they’re all sneaking glances. Monsters are made of love and compassion. Crime is generally low; this case will most likely be the largest of the decade.

Sans bows his head, trying to ignore the stares. The captain leads him back to his holding cell.

~*~

When he wakes up, he’s nowhere near the Core, or his brother, or _him_. He’s lying on a bed that’s not his own. The air is strangely thick, humid. And affixed to the unfamiliar ceiling above him is a dangling mobile. There are seashells, orcas, blue bottlenose dolphins. They sway ever so softly.

Papyrus is nearly lulled back to sleep by the repetitive swaying motions when his view is suddenly blocked. A fish monster with blazing red hair and uneven fangs beams down at him.

“You’re up!”

He flinches, her voice unexpectedly loud.

“You’ve been hogging my bed for three days! Not cool.”

Despite her chastisement, she helps him sit up, fluffing the pillows and placing them against the headboard before he sits back.

Papyrus tries to apologize for sleeping in her bed, but the most he can muster is a strained croak.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, right! I’ll be right back.”

She darts out of the room. The sound of her bare feet slapping on the floorboards soon fades, and once more he is alone. His gaze is drawn back to the mobile and its slow shifting movement.

Papyrus can’t tell if it’s been five minutes or five hours by the time she returns, with a glass of water in hand. She stops short at the bed, and the water sloshes over the brim of the cup, spilling onto the comforter. Uncaring, she shoves the glass of water towards Papyrus until he accepts it. His grip is weak, and more water gets on him than inside his mouth, but by the time the glass is empty he feels more coherent and all-together.

She plucks the glass from his hand.

“Do you want more?”

He shakes his head, so she sets the cup aside on the floor.

“Mom said to call as soon as you woke up, but…” Her brows knit. “Screw that! She wants to talk to you about some boring adult stuff. Let’s hang out!”

She grips his hand suddenly, with surprising strength. Papyrus panics, scrabbling back, away from her. Jagged bones pierce the foot of mattress between them, a clear warning to _back off_.

She raises her hands, taking several steps back.

Papyrus gasps for air, his soul pounding in his chest. He squeezes his eye sockets shut, bunches his shirtfront in a trembling fist. He can’t—he can’t—

“Hey, just relax, okay? Touching you was a mistake. Get that now. I won’t do it again, so just relax, okay?”

She continues rambling assurances until his breathing evens out again, and his summoned magic dissipates.

There’s something at the corner of his mind—the last time someone had grabbed him in bed, the time before that—but before it can settle down and grow roots, it glides off the surface of his mind. He’s not going to think about it right now.

“Are you better now?”

He nods. She lets out a gusty sigh of relief.

Her gaze wanders the room, stopping at a pirate treasure chest.

“I’ve got an idea!” She throws open the chest, letting the lid bang against the wall. She digs into the chest and resurfaces with an armful of action figures. She dumps them all on the bed, before hopping up on it herself. The toys are between them; she’s keeping her distance.

“My mom doesn’t know I found these in the dump. Aren’t they cool?”

Papyrus picks up one of the toys. It’s a muscled creature, with a blonde mustache.

“What are they?”

“These are _human_ action figures!” She explains in a hushed, excited whisper, though it’s only the two of them in the room. “Here, check this one out!”

She grabs one around the chest. When she squeezes, it flexes.

“That is pretty cool.” Papyrus admits.

“I knew you’d like them, Papyrus.” She flashes a toothy grin. “My mom told me your name. I’m Undyne, by the way. My friends just call me ‘dyne, though.”

“Oh.” Papyrus locks in a blue beam onto the hand of a human in orange clothes. He depresses a switch on the human’s back, and the blast flies out and smacks another figure on the bed. Papyrus reloads it.

“Could I call you ‘dyne?”

“Of course, you dummy! That’s why I told you.”

Papyrus can’t stop himself from smiling. There’s a warm feeling in his chest.

“Thanks, ‘dyne.”

~*~

Sans is startled awake as the door to his cell is slammed open. It’s Mira, a keyring in hand.

“Get up.”

Sans rises off the cot. Mira unlocks his cuffs, and he staggers as his magic rushes back to him. He buzzes all over, as if all his limbs had fallen asleep and he’s suddenly lurching forward again. Mira steadies him by the shoulder.

“Come on. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

He follows Mira into her office. The décor is rather Spartan. Law books sit in a neat line on the lone bookshelf. Her desk is absent of any trinkets, and all paperwork is sorted neatly. A golden medal given to Mira for her appointment as Captain of the Royal Guard is framed, and hung above her desk. The one hint of personality in the room is the framed photograph of Mira with her young daughter. There’s no indication of a father.

“You’ll be pleased to know we’re going ahead with the claim that Gaster’s the perpetrator.”

“Can’t say I’ll be happy ‘till he’s locked away for good, Captain.” Still, the band of pressure around his chest loosens considerably. He’ll be able to go home, and be with his brother again. “So you did find something, then.”

Mira nods grimly. “More than enough.”

“…What did he do?” Mira doesn’t respond. “Captain, I need to know what that bastard did to my brother.”

“You’ll hear the evidence in court Sans, just like everyone else. That’s not why I brought you in here.” Mira pulls out a yellow legal pad and a pen from her desk drawer. “We need to prepare. This is going to be an exceptionally hard case. Your testimony needs to be flawless—God knows Gaster’s will be.”

“I’ll say whatever you need me to say.”

“No, you’ll tell the truth. And mind your temper—they’ll do everything possible to provoke you in court. You can’t let them get to you.”

“Okay.”

“We both want the same thing.” Mira clicks her pen on. “Now let’s get to work so we can nail this asshole.”

~*~

Sans fiddles with his tie. He didn’t have the money or the need for a suit before now, but Mira insisted his appearance was crucial, and went out and bought him a new suit out of her own pocket.

Mira squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. “Brace yourself.”

The doors to the courtroom are shut before them. Sans sucks in a deep breath. Captain Mira is on his right, and Justine, the prosecutor, on his left. The vibrant phoenix has served in hundreds of court cases, her reputation one of integrity and passion.

Captain Mira pushes open the door and they step inside. They’re immediately bombarded with questions from every reporter in the Underground. Ignoring the swarm, they proceed to the front of the courtroom. They pass by an elephantine monster, who mumbles apologies to himself as he prepares his canvas for newspaper sketch work.

Seats are reserves for Sans and Mira right behind the prosecution table. When they’ve settled, Sans looks over to the other side of the courtroom. The defense lawyer—a crocodile with pearl-white teeth—shuffles a sheaf of papers, appearing prim and collected. And next to her is…

“Gaster.” He growls, darkly.

Sans’ wrath has left a mark on him: his face is wrapped in so many bandages he’s practically mummified.

“Easy now,” Mira grips Sans’ arm tightly.

The judge enters from his chambers. An old owl, his tawny feathers are greying in his sunset years. He wears thick horn-rimmed glasses, connected to a beaded chain around his neck. Despite his age, his sallow amber eyes look razor sharp.

“All rise.” Commands the bailiff.

The courtroom stands. The defense lawyer lays it on thick, taking great pains to help Gaster up and steady him.

When they’ve all settled again both sides launch their opening remarks to the jury. The prosecution paints Gaster as a monster who abused a child and his position, while the defense claims he’s an innocent, dutiful public servant.

“We would like to call W.D. Gaster to the stand, your honor.” Says the prosecutor.

Gaster rises. His usually brisk, graceful gait is now a pathetically slow limp.

“Bastard’s putting on a show.” Captain Mira mutters to Sans. Gaster winces in pain as he takes the stand.

Justine doesn’t dally. “You’ve made it clear to your staff that you do not socialize after-hours. Your house is well-secluded. You do not appear to enjoy the company of others, so why did you agree to tutor Papyrus in the first place?”

“Papyrus had followed Sans to work one day, and nearly died when a dangerous experiment broke free. I wanted to make sure the boy was alright after such a scare. So yes, I did want to tutor him, but I also felt responsible for his near-death experience. I wanted to make sure he was alright.”

“When the experiment threatened Papyrus’ life, what happened next? Why did the experiment cease attacking?

Gaster purses his lips. “….Sans placed himself between Papyrus and the construct.”

Captain Mira elbows Sans. “Already fixing you for the good guy.”

“You were supposed to tutor Papyrus in his language class studies,” Justine continues. “But after he began attending sessions with you, his grades plummeted. So tell us, Dr. Gaster, what _were_ you doing?”

“Papyrus took to me quite quickly,” Gaster explains. “Sans raised him, yes, but he is barely now an adult. I, on the other hand, plainly resembled the part of a fatherly role. Papyrus soon opened up to me about his troubled home life. He informed me there were nights when Sans would storm and rage about their apartment. The following day he would apologize. To earn Papyrus’ forgiveness, he would make him “feel good”. I of course was appalled.”

“If you were so appalled, surely you could’ve gone to the guard with your concerns.”

“I admit, it was foolishness on my part. I had no clear evidence. I was praying to the angel above that I was merely overthinking it.” Gaster’s one visible eye meets Sans’ glare. “And he had been so charming at work. I never expected the perverse nature behind that perpetual grin.”

Justine brings out her first piece of evidence. A dress for a child.

“This dress was found at the back of your closet. Forensics found residue near the waist and breast of the fabric. A confirmed match for Papyrus’ magic.”

Captain Mira hadn’t told Sans about any of this.

“Would you care to explain why Papyrus’ sexual and soul fluids were found on a garment _you_ own?”

If Gaster is surprised by the evidence, he doesn’t show it. After a pause, he delivers his smooth explanation: “That garment is an Aboveground relic. I had brought it home from a routine dry-cleaning, to protect it from moths and dust. Papyrus saw it hanging on the back of a chair in the living room, and asked to try it on. He wore it for the remainder of our time together that day. Sans did come up; I can only assume discussion of what Sans did to him caused such a reaction.”

It’s a bullshit answer, pulled out of his ass. Sans eyes the jury. Several jot notes down. A few nod.

“They can’t seriously believe that,” Sans whispers to Captain Mira, incredulous.

“Gaster’s a hero,” She says. “No one wants to believe the truth.”

The prosecutor gathers up several more evidence bags from her desk, passing them to the jury. They study each drawing carefully.

“Dr. Gaster, your claim is that Sans is the abuser. And yet, found in Papyrus’ room were several drawings by him that depict you as something frightening.”

“Sans had been the boy’s cornerstone all his life. Change is always upsetting. I’m sure that my attempts to help did alarm him, on some level.”

“When the guards searched your home, trace amounts of cat fur were found by your front step. The fur was a match for Anton Belikov’s.”

“Anton would come over intermittently to discuss work. I don’t see how this is a problem.”

“The problem is that this hair was shed within the time window that Anton went missing. And his dust was found in the river barely a mile from your house.”

“What motive could I possible have to kill my assistant?”

“Anton was last seen leaving the Lab Tuesday, November third. And you were tutoring Papyrus that very same day.” The prosecutor addresses the jury. “It is our belief that Dr. Belikov had something to discuss with Dr. Gaster. Dr. Belikov was unaware of Dr. Gaster’s meetings with Papyrus. And so Dr. Belikov showed up unannounced. He saw something he shouldn’t have—some form of sexual act between Dr. Gaster and Papyrus—and that is why Dr. Gaster killed him. To protect his illicit secret, he killed Dr. Belikov in cold blood.”

“All I can say is that simply isn’t true. I never engaged in sexual acts with Papyrus, and thus I have no motive for this crime.”

“The jury will decide that. Not you.” Gaster purses his lips. Justine returns to her seat. “No further questions, your honor.”

They’re going to win this. Gaster’s responses are eloquently stated, but their logic is flimsy. Everything he says sounds like a considerable stretch of logic.

The defense attorney rises. “Dr. Gaster, can you tell us your opinion of and relation with Sans?”

“Certainly. I hired Sans on for his intellect and his magic control, but also because I took pity on him. He came in to interview in a threadbare suit, which was a few inches short. It was clear that he needed the position. At first, things went well. Sans frequently mentioned his brother at work, how much he loved him. I’d assumed it was a more platonic love at the time.”

“Why did things sour between you two?”

“I initially forbid Sans from working with the magic constructs. He only has 1 HP; naturally I wanted to minimize his level of risk.” Gaster sighs. “But unfortunately, he was impatient, and ambitious. He complained when Anton was chosen over him for trials. That, I believe, is where his resentment stemmed from.”

“And how could a 1 HP monster kill another without so much as a scratch?”

“While Sans might be physically frail, his magic power is extraordinary. He’s deceptively strong.”

“The bandages on your body are from your fight with Sans, yes?”

Gaster nods. “I’d like to show the jury, if I may, the extent of my injuries.”

The judge permits it, so Gaster carefully unwinds the bandages and unsticks the gauze on his face. There’s a collective gasp at the sight of the damage done. A thin crack runs from the top of his left eye, through the crown of his head. A second, deeper crack runs from the bottom of his right eye, down to his throat. Typically healing magic will knit together broken bones and skin. Cracks and scars are rare—marks only linger when a monster is struck with a severe intent to harm.

“There are not marks left by an innocent man.”

“Objection! Let’s not forget who’s on trial, here.”

The defense attorney dips her head.  “My apologies. Withdrawn.”

“His attack was savage. He was desperate to kill me. He tried to—” Gaster swallows. “It was like he was trying to split my skull apart.”

He looks choked up. Playing the sympathy card. Sans’ hands grip his knees tightly. That absolute fucker.

“The defense rests, your honor.”

~*~

“The defense calls forth a witness to speak for Dr. Gaster’s character.”

The doors to the courtroom open. Sans sucks in a breath, and hushed whispers spike up all around him. Asgore Dreemuur, the king of all monsters, glides through the courtroom. The boss monster is too massive for the usual witness bench—another is brought out for him by the bailiffs. The larger bench still creaks as he sits. He smoothens out his rich purple robes, before placing his folded paws on the wooden lip of the stand before him. Sans feels his soul sink. Even with the facts on their side, how are they going to win against the word of the _King_?

The defense attorney gives a slight bow. “King Asgore. We thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to be here.”

“A child has unduly suffered,” King Asgore rumbles. “I consider it my duty to be here.”

“Can you tell the jury of your relationship with Dr. Gaster?”

“Gaster and I have known each other since monsterkind’s time on the surface. He was instrumental in the final days of the war against the humans. It is thanks to his tactical maneuvering that we were able to bring in so many monsters into the Underground.”

“Would you say that Dr. Gaster is someone who helps others?”

“He can be terse with most, but I firmly believe that he cares about monsters. The Core project resulted in hundreds of jobs, and upon its completion, we now have power. Power for our schools, our hospitals, our homes. He has used his intellect to better monsterkind.”

“No further questions.”

The prosecutor rises, carrying the dress over one arm.

“King Asgore. Could you please identify this dress for us?”

The king studies the fabric carefully. “Yes, I’ve seen this before, very long ago. It’s a relic from the surface. I believe the dress belonged to Dr. Gaster’s betrothed.”

“And what happened to his betrothed?”

King Asgore shakes his head. “Like many, she was lost to us. A human mob came to Dr. Gaster’s village. He was lucky to survive.”

“So this dress is undoubtedly something he treasures, right? Something he would take great care of.”

“Yes. It is his most prized possession.”

“In all the time you’ve known him, has Dr. Gaster ever taken the dress to be dry-cleaned?”

King Asgore’s brows furrow. “Not to my knowledge. I don’t believe Dr. Gaster would trust anyone else to its maintenance.”

“It’s interesting you say that, as it directly contradicts the lie Dr. Gaster told us earlier—”

“Objection.”

“Withdrawn. No further questions.”

After King Asgore is dismissed, several more character witnesses are paraded around for the judge and jury. Ivana testifies that her brother Anton got along well with his boss and with Sans; there was no bad blood that she knew of. Saul and Em, surprisingly, side with Sans over Gaster. When the character witnesses are finished, the adjourn for the day.

~*~

“The prosecution calls Sans Serif to the stand.”

A hush of anticipation falls over the crowd as Sans takes the seat on the stand. The bench squeaks as he sits. He wonders if the knobby wooden bench was intentionally made to be uncomfortable.

A sea of faces stare at him from the jam-packed courtroom. Sans forces himself to take a deep breath. He must remain calm, and convey his points clearly. Despite the evidence the prosecution laid out against Gaster, the jury do not appear to be fully swayed yet.

Justine approaches him.

“State your name and occupation for the jury.”

“Sans Serif. I was an assistant to the Royal Scientist.” Past tense. Even when Gaster is locked away for his crimes, Sans cannot return to the scientist’s domain.

“You’re 18, and yet have been watching over your brother for some time on your own.”

Sans nods. “Our parents died when I was 12. I didn’t want us to get separated, so I raised Papyrus myself. I made sure he was taken care of.”

“You made sure he was fed and had an education.”

“Sometimes money would be tight. I always made sure Papyrus got what he needed, first.”

“Why did you do all of this for him?”

“I love him. He’s my little brother. He—He’s a sweet kid. I’d do anything for him.”

“When did you first suspect Dr. Gaster was hurting your brother?”

“Papyrus had been acting strange for a while. More withdrawn. Then the school informed me his grades were plummetin’. Despite going to tutoring a couple times a week.” Sans feels sick. He’d sent his brother up to Gaster, delivered him to the door. “So I got to thinkin’, if Gaster’s not tutoring him, what are they doing?” A short incredulous laugh escapes him. “At first I didn’t—I thought Papyrus had just seen Anton get dusted. It didn’t even cross my mind that Gaster would _do_ something like that, that he could touch—”

Sans’ throat closes. He’s choked with rage.

“I found some stuff in his room. Pictures. And Anton’s notes. And when I found out about that, I confronted him. He panicked and ran into his room. That’s when I found out about the—the sexual abuse.”

“Why did you not inform the royal guard?”

“I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t even think of that. All I could think is that I had to stop Gaster before he did it again.”

“Were you trying to kill him?”

“…Yes. I’m not proud of it. I used to—I’d admired Gaster. I was hurt that he’d take advantage of my trust, furious that he’d hurt Papyrus, who never deserved somethin’ like this.”

“When the guards found you, Papyrus was dangling over the Core by your magic. Can you explain that?”

“I cornered ‘em. Gaster had told Papyrus to jump if I came closer. I couldn’t let Gaster get away with it. And I couldn’t lose my baby bro either. So when he jumped, I made sure I grabbed him.”

Justine nods. “I’m done here.”

The defense attorney is next up. She saunters over to Sans, and sneers down at him, unimpressed.

“You’ve worked hard to support Papyrus. While children your age were out at the mall and the movies, you were working. You did this all without complaint, for years.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“Right, yes, yes.” The defense lawyer paces the length of the room by the jury.  “And isn’t it possible that that planted a seed of resentment? It’s not fair that Papyrus gets to have a happy, completely normal upbringing while you toil away. Is it not possible for that seed to flourish from years and years of taking care of duties that should never have belonged to you. You never had any time for yourself. A significant other out of the question. You’ve never dated, have you?”

“No, but—”

“Papyrus should give up something too, right? You felt you were owed something. So what was the harm in having a little fun, feeling good?”

Sans rises from the bench. Magical pressure thickens the air like a thundercloud.

“Mr. Serif.” The bailiff points at the bench. Mira is glaring at him from her seat, no doubt mentally screaming at him to keep his shit together.

Sans sits down again. The magical pressure evaporates. But the defense attorney has a sly smile on her face.

“Quite the explosive temper you have there.”

“I’m sure you can understand why you saying shit like that would piss me the hell off.”

“Is that how you got Papyrus to do what you wanted? Did he live in fear of setting off your short temper?”

“Of course not. I love Papyrus dearly, as a _brother_. I’ve never, _ever_ touched him. The thought makes me sick.”

The defense switches tactics. “How would you describe your drinking habits, Mr. Serif?”

“Uh, you know. Recreational-like.”

“How many times a week do you drink, on average?”

“…I usually take a shot before bed. Work is stressful. It helps me relax.”

“Ah. So you are drinking five of the seven days of the week.”

Sans grits his teeth. “You ask any salaryman in New Home, I bet you they do the same.”

“They are also larger than you. And older. Do you drink in front of Papyrus? Excessively?”

“No. Of course not.”

“I find it interesting you would say such a thing. Dr. Gaster has told me of the evening he went to your apartment. For a Gyftmas party.”

Shit. He’d played into her hands without even noticing.

“Dr. Gaster has told me that you were halfway drunk while Papyrus was awake, and after he went to bed, you drank yourself into a stupor.”

Sans flushes. “That was one time. It was a holiday. Gaster was drinking too.”

“You say it was “one time”, but there’s no way for us to know the truth of that, is there? With your temper and alcohol combined, it’s possible you touched your brother without his consent, and don’t even remember doing so.”

“That’s not true.”

“Can we trust anything you say? And furthermore, if you considered Dr. Gaster a threat to your brother, why would you get drunk and pass out with the doctor still in your apartment? That would have left both you and Papyrus vulnerable.”

God, _had_ something happened that night? Is that why Papyrus had such a strong reaction to Sans on top of him, in his bed?

“I wasn’t sure yet at that time that he’d done anything.”

“You’re the youngest hire in the Lab’s history. And in Dr. Gaster’s elite group, no less. Someone as brilliant and cunning as you truly took that long to put the supposed facts together? I find that difficult to believe.”

The defense attorney turns to the judge. “No further questions, your honor.”

~*~

Sans picks halfheartedly at his sandwich. After his turn on the stand, the courtroom broke for an hour lunch break. He sits now with Captain Mira and Justine, in one of the many out of use rooms in the courthouse. Captain Mira wolfs down her food, while Justine takes small bites as she looks through her notes.

Captain Mira nudges Sans. “Chin up. We knew they’d be slimy bastards, and you’re not the one on trial. If they wanted to turn around and accuse you of everything, we’d need an entirely new case.”

“Gaster is angling for reasonable doubt,” Muses Justine. “If we don’t prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Gaster is guilty, we lose.”

“He can’t walk free. Not after all he did.”

“He won’t, Sans. Trust us.”

If the jury declares a mistrial, Gaster can’t be tried again later for the same crime. Sans chews his food, tasting nothing. If the court system fails, he’ll make damn sure Gaster doesn’t get away with what he’s due. No matter the consequences.

~*~

“There’s only one witness remaining. A key witness for both the defense and the prosecution. Papyrus Serif.” The prosecutor addresses the judge. “The prosecution understands that the defendant has the right to remain present in the courtroom of his own trial. After a discussion with our psychiatrist, she has deemed it best that Papyrus has as limited exposure as is possible to both Dr. Gaster and Sans Serif until the verdict has been decided. We request that Papyrus be blindfolded for the duration of his testimony, and that both the defendant and Mr. Serif refrain from speaking while Papyrus is present.”

“The defense has no issue with this.”

The judge nods.

“Papyrus has damage to his soul. Our psychiatrist noted that the improper handling of his soul left a lasting imprint on it.  Papyrus might perjure himself out of a need to protect the one who manipulated him. The prosecution asks the jury to take Papyrus’ words, for lack of a better term, with a grain of salt.”

The prosecutor steps out of the courtroom, along with Captain Mira. Sans watches the door, hardly daring to breathe. It’ll be the first time he’s seen Papyrus in nearly a month. Gaster is also waiting, expectantly.

The door opens. Mira walks slowly, leading Papyrus by the hand. A black band has been wound around his eye sockets, but it’s hard to miss the feel of all the magic in the room. Papyrus knows he’s being watched by many, many eyes. Shoulders hunched, he keeps a tight grip on Captain Mira’s hand.

“That’s it, you’re doing well. Just a little further.” She coaxes.

Papyrus is too small for the witness stand; a bailiff runs into an adjoining room and grabs a chair cushion, to boost him up a few inches.

Sans clamps his mouth shut as Papyrus is led past him. There’s nothing he wants more than to grab Papyrus in a hug and take him away from all this. But he forces himself to stay rooted to the spot as Papyrus takes the stand.

This is it. Despite truth being on the prosecution’s side, the verdict of the jury has felt somewhat up in the air until now thanks to the defense attorney’s silver tongue and Gaster’s pity party. Papyrus’ testimony will shape the outcome of the case.

“This is a very brave thing you’re doing. Thank you for being here, Papyrus.” The prosecutor’s tone is noticeably softer then it had been with earlier witnesses. “Can you tell us how old you are?”

“Ten.” His voice is so soft, Sans can barely hear him. And he’s in the front row.

“What are some things you like, Papyrus?”

“Um, I like to draw…and read about cars.” Papyrus pauses. “I want to drive a car on the surface.”

Justine continues to coax answers from Papyrus. Simple questions, in non-dangerous territory: his favorite foods, television shows, and the like. The defense attorney looks like she wants to object to the inane line of questioning, but says nothing. Justine’s winding chitchat soon shows its purpose. The harmless questions serve to relax Papyrus on the stand. After ten minutes he sits straighter, speaks louder.

“Now Papyrus, do you think you can answer some questions about the monster who hurt you?” When Papyrus stiffens, Justine hastens to add, “You don’t have to say his name. Just say “he”. Can you do that for me, Papyrus?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Thank you. Can you tell me when it started? When did he start to touch you?”

“Not, not until October.” A few weeks after Gaster started the tutoring sessions with him. “I-It didn’t hurt. He was nice. He made me feel nice. It was our special s-secret.”

“How did he make you feel nice?”

“He touched my soul. And I got to help him too. And he also, um. Showed me how to make parts.” Papyrus squirms on the stand. “You know, down there.”

“Was there penetration?”

Papyrus nods.

That sick _fuck_. Others share Sans’ sentiment—there’s outcry in the courtroom. The judge bangs his gavel, shouting for order until everyone quiets again.

“You said you helped him, too? With his soul?”

“I h-held his soul. ‘n did stuff to it.”

The prosecutor hands Papyrus a foam soul model. “Can you demonstrate how he touched your soul, with this?”

Papyrus massages the foam with a practiced ease.

“He, um, bit my soul too.”

Justine’s feathers crackle. She flicks them, snuffing the sudden flames out.

“Have you received education on soul bonds yet in your school?”

Papyrus shakes his head.

“It is a very special bond, meant to be shared only between adults. It is possible for emotions and urges to be shared through the joining of souls. Do you feel like you’ve been effected in this manner? That how you feel has changed?”

“I…I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“How do you feel about him?”

“It’s my fault this is happening. He’s so nice to me and now he’s in trouble because of me.”

“Papyrus. I know this has been a stressful and confusing ordeal for you, but he’s not nice. What he did to you was wrong. Illegal and immoral.”

Papyrus shakes his head vehemently. “N-No, you don’t understand. He said I was mature enough. It was okay!”

“You’re only saying this because your soul was manipulated—”

The defense attorney rises. “Objection! Your honor, the prosecution cannot cherry-pick what truths they want from this witness to steer their agenda.”

“Judge. I request permission to treat the witness as hostile.”

“Hostile?” Sans hisses to Mira. “What does that mean?”

“Just wait, alright?”

The judge gestures to both attorneys with a sweep of his wing.

“Approach the bench.”

Both do. Their voices are heated, but hushed; no one can hear their private discussion, except maybe Papyrus. The defense attorney returns to her seat as the prosecutor assumes the floor again.

“Papyrus. Though only one of them is on trial now, there are two monsters everyone in this room considers suspects. Either Dr. Gaster, or your brother, Sans.” She steps closer, looming over the witness stand. Papyrus can’t see her, but undoubtedly he can feel the heat of her flames, and sense her magical pressure.

“Tell me who touched you. If you say Dr. Gaster, then Sans will die.”

“Prosecutor!” The judge hoots.

“If you say Sans, then Dr. Gaster will die!”

“No,” Papyrus moans.

“Gaster or Sans! You have to make a choice!”

“I can’t do it! I can’t! I—I—”

“Say the name! Do you want your brother to die because you wouldn’t say the name?”

Papyrus claws at the sides of his skull in distress. The blindfold is pulled askew, but his eye sockets are vacant.

“I can’t! I can’t!”

“That’s enough!” Sans rises from his seat, despite Mira’s attempts to yank him down. “He’s hurting himself!”

“Sit down, dumbass!” Mira’s claws drag him back down.

“Sans or Gaster!”

“I can’t! I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” Papyrus whines brokenly.

Papyrus is hyperventilating. Tears run down his face. He presses his head to the witness stand.

“That is enough, Justine!” The judge pounds his gavel.

“Tell me!”

“Bailiff, please remove—”

“Doctor, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Papyrus’ voice cracks at the end of his sentence. “Tell me what to do, please. I’ll be good, just tell me what to do!”

The courtroom erupts in noise at Papyrus’ inadvertent admission, as Gaster’s face drains of all blood. Papyrus sobs like he’s dying, and his low wails will haunt Sans’ nightmares for years to come.

~*~

Wingdings Gaster is found guilty of murder in the 2nd degree, two attempted murder charges, as well as sexual and soul abuse of a minor. Capital punishment would be the typical verdict for such crimes, but the doctor escapes the executioner’s blade.

Because they still need him.

No other monster understands the Core’s intricacies as intimately as the monster who designed it. If the Core seriously malfunctioned, Gaster would be the one to turn to, not the Chief Engineer.

And so Gaster is kept alive in a magic-dampening cell, under 24-hour guard surveillance. His life, once full of challenge and excitement, is now drudgery. Sans fervently hopes he dusts himself.

Captain Mira returns Papyrus to Sans’ care. He flinches at every touch, and says little.

The city is too much for Papyrus, after all that has happened. Sans makes arrangements to move to Snowdin. The remote, rustic area is the best option to get away from everything. Many of them probably haven’t even heard about the case, despite its infamy.

Before they can move, he just has one last obligation to see to.  
Sans has never seen the barrier before today. It shimmers and pulses, alien-like. It looks like a solid wall, and yet also something that stretches on forever.

A small group has assembled. Saul and Em are present, as well as the King, who organized this spectacle. Sans brought Papyrus along as well; he doesn’t want to leave his brother alone, not yet. Everyone hangs back from a safe distance as Sans calls forth the blasters.

He concentrates on his feelings from before—all the rage and desperation—and the blasters fire. The beams of raw magic collide with the barrier wall. The barrier ripples around the impact center. He angles the blasters to target the same spot. If he could weaken it, just a little…

Sweat beads on his skull. He summons a third blaster, pouring his soul into it.

He’s not used to controlling this technology for long periods of time. In minutes he starts to sway on his feet. When the beams stutter out, he dismisses the blasters themselves.

The barrier’s ripples become larger, smoothing out again. Saul steps forward, a device in his hands that was built to scan the barrier’s strength. It clicks and beeps for several minutes.

Grim-faced, Saul turns back to them and shakes his head. “No damage.”

Sans’ laugh at that is sharp and bitter. He had worked on Project BOMB for months; his coworkers, years. The weapon forged with the combined magic of the strongest monsters in the Underground can’t even scratch the barrier.

King Asgore rests a heavy paw on Sans’ shoulder. “Do not give up hope. We can try this again, when you obtain further mastery over their powers. And the Lab will turn its focus to alternative solutions to this problem.”

Parting from the group, the King escorts Sans and Papyrus to the throne room. Papyrus sits among the golden flowers, while Sans and King Asgore take tea at a wire picnic table.

Asgore’s paw engulfs the spoon in his hand. With delicate precision, he stirs his tea.

“Have you given thought to my proposition?” He’d offered Sans a head position overseeing Lab technicians. Increased wages, but restricted hours to look after Papyrus.

“It’s kind of ya. But I think Papyrus would be better off somewhere a bit quieter.”

King Asgore nods, solemn. “I have heard of your plan to move to Snowdin. Don’t worry about cost, in any matter regarding the move. I’ll see to it that you’re both provided for.” He fiddles with the rim of his tea cup. His head bows in grief. “It appears I’m not as great a judge of character as I had thought. I’m glad the jury overlooked my partiality. I am deeply sorry for what both you and your brother have gone through.”

Sans doesn’t know what to stay. An apology, even from a king, is still just words.

~*~

The crisp Snowdin air cuts like a knife. Papyrus readjusts his scarf as Sans fumbles with his keyring.

Their new house looks old. The red paint is faded and curling. The front door is made of weathered oak. Sans unlocks it, and has to shove against it with his shoulder to get the stiff wood to move.

Sans lets Papyrus in and shuts the door again behind them. It’s warmer inside, fractionally.

Sans whistles, craning his neck as he looks around. “This is much bigger than our old place, don’t you think?” The modern furniture—top of the line, shipped from New Home—feels inorganic in this bucolic house.

“Look, Paps.” Sans hops on the couch. He pats the plush green fabric. “Feel how comfy it is.”

Papyrus reluctantly perches on the other side of the couch. Forces a smile.

Sans keeps trying to make him feel better, by pretending everything’s okay and normal. It doesn’t work. But when he’s around Sans, he feels obligated to act like his brother is cheering him up. It’s too much, so while Sans explores the kitchen, Papyrus heads upstairs. He picks the room closest to the staircase. This is meant to be his room, he can tell by the décor, but it’s missing things. His racecar bed has been replaced with a simple frame and headboard. He checks his closet—all the clothes the doctor had given him are absent. Instead, he has a new wardrobe; thick cable-knit sweaters, long black jeans, to ward off Snowdin’s perpetual chill. Papyrus grabs a pair of red gloves, fitting them onto his hands.

Things don’t sound right here, either. In New Home he fell asleep to the sound of sirens, the laughter and music coming from nearby bars. Here in the woods, in this sleepy cluster of homes, the only sound outside is the wind’s howl.

Papyrus pulls out the object he had carefully tucked away in his inventory—his stuffed rabbit. Sans has tried to get rid of every trace of _him_ , but Papyrus managed to hide this one thing. Papyrus strokes the soft velveteen lining of Fluffy Bunny’s ears. Sans doesn’t understand the fierce unrest in his soul. That Papyrus needs to be as close to him as possible.

Papyrus presses his face into the rabbit’s plush fur. He can smell the spiced cinnamon of Toyland, and the faintest whiff of the doctor’s cologne. He breathes deep.

There’s a sudden scraping sound.

Papyrus’ gaze flies to the door, as he guiltily shoves the bunny back into his inventory. However, the door is still shut. So what’s making that noise?

Papyrus timidly peers around the corner of the bed. The scraping noise is coming from inside one of the moving boxes. The box wiggles. As Papyrus draws closer, he hears heavy, excited breathing.

Papyrus lifts up the lid. He lets out a scream of fright as something lunges at him from the box, tackling him to the floor. There’s a distant thud from downstairs, and then Papyrus’ door is slammed open, the pressure of Sans’ magic flooding the room.

Sitting on top of Papyrus’ chest is a fluffy white dog. Not a dog monster—an animal. While common Aboveground, down here animals are something of a rarity. He can feel the dog’s cold paws through the fabric of his sweater. The dog yips, bestowing several excited licks on Papyrus’ face.

“Papyrus?” Sans spots the pair of them. The tension deflates. “Well at least that explains the dog hair under the kitchen sink.”

Papyrus sits up. The dog butts its head against Papyrus’ shoulder, whining for attention. Papyrus scratches it under the chin, and its tail thumps against the floor.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Sans grabs the dog. It wriggles.

“What are you going to do with him?” Papyrus’ voice is hoarse from disuse.

Sans pauses in the doorway. “Was gonna put ‘em outside. Must’ve slipped in with the moving crew.”

“Wait.” It’s freezing outside; no condition for a monster, much less an animal with no real means to shelter itself. “It can stay here.”

Sans sighs, but doesn’t say no to him. He rarely does, now.

Sans sets the dog back down, and it trots over to Papyrus’ side. He crouches down, carding his hands through its fur, untangling old knots. Its tail is a blur.

“Should be easy enough to get kibble in town, considering,” Sans half-mutters, thinking aloud. “Just make sure it knows to do its business outside, alright?”

Papyrus nods.

~*~

When Papyrus wanders from his room the next day, Sans is watching television, the volume dialed low. The Underground has only three channels: the news channel, the film channel (which shows both monster-made features, as well as old movies scavenged from the dump), and the cartoon channel for kids.

The news channel typically is depressingly boring: nothing really changes. So when the investigation began, the media pounced on it like a starving animal.

Sans is watching the news—the nonstop coverage of the Dr. Gaster scandal, picking apart every piece of the trial. Gaster’s face is shown, and Papyrus gasps. He hadn’t seen the horrific cracks that marred the doctor’s face before, but he’s pierced with the sudden stark knowledge that it’s _his fault_ they’re there, if only he had been _better_ —

“Shit.” Sans fumbles for the remote and changes the channel to harmless, bright cartoons. Sans calls over to him, voice shaky. “Why don’t you come over and join me, Paps?”

Papyrus takes a seat on the couch, on the opposite end from Sans. The dog—Papyrus still hasn’t thought of a good name for it yet—hops up to sit beside him.

His brother shuffles off after a few minutes to make them both breakfast. Sans slips the remote into his pocket. Papyrus could still get up and change the channel. He might be able to see the doctor’s face. Learn where he is.

But Sans would be mad with him. He has to serve, Sans _has_ to be happy with him. He can’t disappoint him. His bones itch with heat.

_Squeak!_

The dog hopped off the couch while he was distracted, and retrieved a plastic bone from its fast-growing collection of toys. The dog squeaks the bone between its jaws, and bumps the toy against Papyrus’ knee. He gives in, grabbing one end and playing a game of tug.

He’s grateful that Sans allowed him to keep the dog; though it has a penchant for drooling and leaving its fur on everything like a second carpet, it’s also the first living thing he’s been able to touch without flinching for months. Papyrus takes advantage of this by snuggling and cuddling with his canine companion every chance he gets. And the dog, when wiped out from playtime, is always happy to oblige.

“Breakfast’s ready.” Sans announces.

Leaving the dog to its bone, Papyrus joins Sans at the table. It’s his favorite, again—dinosaur oatmeal. It’s more expensive compared to the plain oatmeal, so Sans used splurge on it for him only on special days. Each packet was parceled out like treasure. Papyrus has eaten it every day this week. If Sans keeps this up, he’ll learn to hate the smell of cinnamon.

“So.” Sans clears his throat. His spoon clinks against his bowl. “So. How are you, uh. Holdin’ up there, Pap?”

“Fine.” Papyrus eats a small bite of oatmeal.

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

Sans frowns. “What’re you wearin’ your gloves for then, kiddo?”

Papyrus shrugs.

“…You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

Papyrus nods. They finish their meal in silence.

~*~

Sans must not have believed him, because soon after, Papyrus is brought to a therapist’s office in Waterfall. The degrees on her wall honor her psychology doctorate, but she pointedly introduces herself as “Miss” Maybelle.

Miss Maybelle is a sheep monster, with curly yellow fur and elegant ashen horns. She exudes serenity and patience.

Nice as she is, Papyrus doesn’t really want to talk to her about what happened. But he wants to talk with Sans about it even less, so he agrees to attend further meetings with her.

At first he tries to tell her what he thinks she wants to hear. Gaster was horrible, frightening. Papyrus hated every second. But Miss Maybelle pulls the truth out of him, and prescribes him several medications. One for his anxiety, another to help him sleep. And a third, which relies an innovative new herb blend, meant to flush any foreign magic out of Papyrus’ system.

Papyrus doesn’t take to the third well.

Minutes after his first dosage find him running to the bathroom. He lifts up the toilet seat just in time to heave. Thick, syrupy fluid drips out of his mouth, splattering into the toilet bowl.

Sans isn’t far behind, and reaches out to soothe him. Papyrus jerks away.

“D-Don’t touch—” Papyrus groans, heaving again. “Don’t touch me.”

Sans’ outstretched hand wavers in the air before it falls again to his side.

“I’m gonna call Maybelle, make sure this is ‘sposed to be happenin’. I’ll be right outside, ok?”

Papyrus nods feebly. Another wave of nausea moves through him. Papyrus coughs up more gunk. The viscous, violet ichor drips down the side of the bowl. His hand fumbles for the toilet handle. He leans back against the cool tile of the wall, before unspooling toilet paper to dab at the smeared residue on his mouth.

By the time Sans returns, Papyrus feels wrung out and weary.

Sans crouches down beside him.

“Hey kiddo. Think you can make it back to the couch for me?”

Sans hovers behind him as he returns to the living room, but Papyrus stubbornly walks the distance by himself. When he flops wearily onto the couch, Sans is quick to wrap him in a blanket.

He burrows into the soft fabric as Sans disappears into the kitchen. The dog wiggles out from under the couch, a stray candy wrapper clinging to its fur. Papyrus pulls the garbage off the canine before it flops across his lap, panting happily.

Sans returns, and hands him a glass of warm milk. Papyrus mutters his thanks, taking small sips. His nausea settles, gradually.

“Maybelle said it should get better with time. There must just be a lot of stuff to, uh. Flush out.”

Will this really help him be normal again? He feels sick, and tired. But otherwise, still the same as before. He still feels things for Dr. Gaster he knows he’s supposed to think are wrong.

He sips his milk.

~*~

The dog paws miserably at his door for a few minutes, but Papyrus ignores the scraping and whining. This is something he needs to be alone for.

Papyrus climbs into bed, pulling the Fluffy Bunny out of his inventory. The doctor’s smell has faded, but Papyrus’ eye sockets flutter shut as he imagines it. Fear was an afterthought when Dr. Gaster’s hands were on his soul. He felt calm, at peace. He could stop worrying, stop thinking, just let the doctor take control of everything.

Papyrus tugs off his sleep-shorts, and bucks against the plush rabbit. The stuffed animal is too soft and pliant on its own, so he tugs his pillow under the rabbit, humping it. Dr. Gaster touched him multiple times a week. He’s conditioned to crave touch, friction, release. All this time without it has left him restless.

His magic glows dimly at his pelvis. He rubs against the rabbit, and tears of frustration spring to his eyes. He bucks frantically, but it’s a pale imitation of how the doctor made him feel.

Papyrus pretends this is a punishment. The doctor is perched on his desk chair, watching him with those dark, piercing eyes.

That works. Papyrus’ pace becomes frantic.

His soul spurts, a quick burst of release.

Papyrus slows, breathing hard.

He comes down from his high at a sharp plummet—he throws the rabbit off his bed. It hits the wall and lays limbs a-kilter on the floor.

Papyrus curls into a ball. He’s sick. Disgusting. What’s wrong with him?

~*~

“Papyrus, we need to talk.”

“No.” Papyrus rolls over in his bed.

Sans drags up a chair to his bedside. “Well just listen to what I’ve got to say then, alright?”

Papyrus reluctantly sits up, watching Sans.

“I’ve been wondering how to say this for weeks now. I might as well just go for it at this point.” Sans sucks in a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Papyrus. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.” Wetness appears on Sans’ face. Papyrus has never seen his brother cry before. “I just need you to know that I’m sorry. I love you so much. Please, if you’re ever in trouble—come to me. I don’t care what it is. Tell me what bothers you, and we can fix it together.”

Sans reaches for his hand, but Papyrus flinches.

“Bro, please. I won’t hurt you.”

“It’s not that. I…I’m afraid what’ll happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to, but. I, I’m afraid if you do touch me, then I’ll start wanting you to do those things, too.”

Papyrus stares at his bedspread to avoid the look on Sans’ face. He picks at a fraying thread.

“He doesn’t control you anymore, Papyrus.” Sans holds out his hand. “Please, just try. Without the gloves.”

“I can’t.”

“C’mon, Paps.” Sans cajoles. “You’re the greatest. I know you can do it.”

He’s afraid. But it’ll make Sans happy. And maybe—maybe it’d make him happy, too.

He’s clumsy with panic as he fumbles to pull off his right glove. He finally succeeds, revealing pale ivory bones.

Sans slowly moves his hand over.

Papyrus cringes as their palms touch, their fingers meshing together. Tense, Papyrus waits. But there’s no heady rush of desire. Just the feel of Sans’ warm palm against his clammy one.

“See? I knew you could do it.”

Papyrus crumbles. He hugs Sans around the waist, tight as he can. He bawls into his brother’s jacket. Sans rubs a soothing hand along Papyrus’ back, squeezing him close.

He’s not better, not by a long shot.

But it’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this fic! I appreciate it. I've written and continue to write for the fandom, so feel free to check out my other stuff! Nothing is as dark as this, haha.


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